The Color of Fear

by Thomas Laird

  “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  We talk to Creel and his silent counselor, Walter Evans, for thirty minutes. Creel is admitting nothing. He doesn’t know what we’re talking about. He wasn’t there; he didn’t do nothing.

  When it’s over, we book him. Evans asks about the arraignment date and he leaves when he gets the information.

  “I got a bad feeling,” Doc says as Walter leaves the Division Headquarters.

  “A bad feeling about the look on Wendell’s face as we left the project?” I ask him.

  “That, too. But I was really thinking that Anthony Wayne Dwight is gonna walk just as soon as the judge hears about all the bogus witnesses who’re gonna place Creel elsewhere on the day in question. I don’t know if our eyeballers are going to be as credible as the ones Walter Evans is going to pull up out of his asshole.”

  “You’re a pessimist, Doc. Relax. We got Creel. Now we need to get the headman and his piece. We need to locate Chaka.”

  *

  Doc’s apprehensions come true. Creel walks, one week later. We go in to bring our witnesses downtown for a lineup, and they’ve disappeared. Courtesy, I’m sure, of Rashaan Abu Riad. I really can’t blame the two men who backed out. One’s name was Martin Ledoux and the other was Randolph Frontiere. Two thirty year olds who’ve been on unemployment for six months each. Bobby Wells certainly found their price range, and even though we moved them into southside apartments for the last four weeks, it couldn’t prevent someone on the southside from locating these two and making them an offer they couldn’t turn aside.

  So Creel is free and Chaka is still stalking the near north side. And I’m getting angrier than I have been since this case began.

  “Let’s try Martinson at the Tribune,” I suggest to Gibron.

  “Why not? It can’t make things any worse.”

  I call him at the newspaper. He can’t wait to get to my office. It’s the first hand extended to him by the Department on these child killings in the Inner City, he explains over the phone.

  He arrives at my office an hour later. He’s a freckle faced reporter who’s already copped two Pulitzers. I don’t know if I like him, but I do respect him. He’s written things that took some balls. He’s gone after the Outfit and survived.

  “We’re looking for a banger named Chaka. He seems to have disappeared,” I explain to him.

  “How about a reward?” the freckle faced writer suggests.

  “How about your paper putting it up? Trib’s got plenty of cash. All that money from the concessions at Wrigley,” Doc grins.

  “It’s a possibility... But I get exclusive rights for a first interview if we help turn him up. You got mug shots of this kid killer?”

  I open the file and show him.

  “Not a bad looking kid,” Martinson says.

  “Class valedictorian for Murder Inc,” Doc says, minus the grin.

  “I hear you. Let me see what I can do... How come you’re coming to me? You two at a deadend?”

  “We can use all the help we can get. There’s a woman I know who hasn’t got her little boy to walk home from school anymore, Martinson. You want to help us or not? You can gloat if you like.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. His eyes are suddenly not so bright.

  “He was a beautiful little guy. Take a look at his pictures. This bastard snuffed him like a nickel candle. His mother put herself through nurse’s school just so she could get the two of them out of that cesspool we call Cabrini Green.”

  “I’d like to talk to her,” the reporter says.

  I write Celia’s new address and phone down for him.

  “People read what you say and sometimes they’re even moved to do something about the situation you write about,” Doc tells him. “I’m not trying to stroke your back. I’m just trying to explain why we’re asking for your help. If you can turn up somebody who’s got the balls to drop the dime on this Chaka or his understudy Creel, we might be able to do a little justice for Andres Dacy.”

  Martinson doesn’t have anything else to tell us. He hesitates in the doorway for a few seconds, and then he leaves us.

  We’re back at the first move in the game. It starts all over again. We have to catch Chaka dirty. We have to locate him and the weapon and then we can bypass the impossibility of locating an eyewitness to the shooting. The Candyman, our local prosecutor, Daniel Brego, won’t go to court if his ass is hanging out into the wind. He likes physical evidence and so do I. Witnesses vary in reliability. Cold evidence does not flutter in the wind. Brego knows it as well as I do.

  It’s time to turn up the thermostat. The summer is getting hotter and more nasty and it’s put me in a similar mood. Hot and nasty.

  I didn’t like the look on Wendell’s face as we walked out the door with Creel. It was a face that went beyond common disgust with a creep like Anthony Wayne Dwight aka Creel. I could almost see Wendell with a knife in his hand going over the throats of Ronnie Jackson and Antoine the gangbanger. I could picture him slicing the throat and cutting the head off Bobby Wells’ mean motherfucker pitbull, too.

  The dog was poisoned, the M.E.’s people let us know. They weren’t thrilled to be spending time on a mutt, but they did so at my request. Arsenic was the poison. A piece of beefsteak had been laced with enough to kill a baby rhino. That dog didn’t die a happy death, either, the M.E., Dr. Gray, explained to Doc and me. It would’ve taken a little time and agony for the pitbull to go down.

  Wendell knows about pooches. All coppers do. Most of us have had to whack one or waste one or two while in the field. When you try to enter a home or an apartment complex, it sometimes becomes an unfortunate necessity. We catch all kinds of hell from the ASPCA from time to time, but I’d rather see a dead animal than a torn up copper any day.

  Wendell appeared to have something in his eyes for Celia, too, and I can’t get rid of that image of his face when he told me what a pretty lady Celia Dacy was, that first time at Cabrini for Andres’ murder.

  If Bobby Wells is calling the tune on Antoine and Ronnie, he’s a better actor than I’ve given him credit for. There was real terror on his face when he showed us the dead canine in his backyard. I don’t think he’s that good a performer. If he is, he’s wasting his time in the hood. He ought to be out in Hollywood making some real chump change.

  I’m going to keep throwing lines out until I catch something. I don’t care if it’s just a rubber tire anymore. I’m tired of coming up empty. Andres Dacy has been in the ground too long without someone speaking for him. Celia Dacy has gone without her only child too long for her not to know some semblance of justice. And those animals Creel and Chaka and Bobby Louis Wells have been free men far too long for me to just sit here and feel sorry for myself.

  It’s time to light up the blowtorch. Yes, indeed. It’s scorched earth time, just like in that old lost war.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  This is the only way Doc and I would be able to afford a Bull’s playoff game. Somebody from Tactical who’s off duty is working security and he spots Chaka in the United Center. Out of 24,000 screamers, it’s a pretty good make. He’s wearing his uniform of the day, Chaka is. The black leather banger coat — in the middle of the summer. Which draws Andy Robinson’s attention. Andy’s the Tactical copper.

  Where Chaka goes thereafter is another guess. Andy just caught sight of him entering the arena. Now it’s up to me and my partner to find him in this massive crowd of Bulls’ fans.

  “It’s impossible. We’d be better off to try and catch him on his way out,” Doc declares.

  We’re watching the Lovabulls — the Bulls’ cheerleaders — do some kind of dance routine out on the floor. Then the teams run to their benches and the music cues the crowd that the lineups are about to be announced. They’ve got a very theatrical announcement deal with the starters. The lights go out, the announcer goes nuts when he reads off the Bulls’ card, and then the crowd goes berserk about the time the P.A. guy arrives at Michael Jordan’s
name. Maybe you’ve seen it on tv.

  “Shit,” Doc laments as the lights go out.

  We’ve got ten uniforms with us, but we probably could’ve used 300. Problem is that a lot of coppers are busy with security for Lady Di, Prince Chuckles soon-to-be ex-wife, who’s visiting the city trying to raise cash for some charities. If coppers aren’t lining up to do security work for this basketball franchise, they’re standing in line to escort the woman who might’ve been the wife of the King of England. Her appeal is beyond me. I’d much rather be stuck at the United Center doing the NBA playoffs.

  After Jordan is announced and after the bedlam subsides, we begin to search the crowd for Chaka. We go after him in twos. There’s probably a good reason why Chaka is wearing a leather coat in 95 degree temperatures. Outside it’s that hot, at least. In here it’s in the low seventies.

  The uniforms pair off as we do, and Doc and I can see them wandering from aisle to aisle across the floor from us. But no one shoots us any signal that they’ve found the man we’re looking for.

  Doc is a big Bulls fan. He watches the games on the tube and he comes up with comp tickets for them once or twice a year. He took me and my kids and Erin here last year. My son was thrilled. He got Scottie Pippin’s autograph. My daughter and wife were not as excited. They would’ve rather gone to see The Bridges of Madison County that evening, as we had planned to do before Gibron came up with the freebies to the ball game.

  Jordan steals a pass intended for some big goon from the opposing club, he throws a half court lob to Pippin, and Pippin jams after taking off in a swoop from the free throw line. Everybody’s on their feet, and it’s then that I make Chaka.

  Six rows straight down from Doc and me. We’re standing parallel to mid-court, about halfway up the lower bowl. I see his coat first. Then he turns to look at the blonde bimbette who’s screaming at the back of his head, so I see his face.

  “It’s him,” I tell Doc. I’m not whispering because I’d never be heard above the roar that follows another steal by Jordan and another jam —this time by Ron Harper.

  I nod toward the location and then Doc has him made, too.

  Chaka turns around toward the broad doing the screaming in his ear and he says something to the woman. When he’s about to resume watching the action, he scans upward toward us.

  “He’s seen us. He remembers us from the chase on the street. Motherfucker’s got a good memory,” Gibron complains.

  Chaka looks around the United Center and he sees the uniforms scattered throughout the auditorium. I get on my walky-talky and have some more patrolmen sent here to wait at every exit. I’m hoping they can get here before Chaka plans on taking a run for the exits. There aren’t enough of us to cover every way out of here. Not without the extra coppers.

  “Should we wait until half, when everybody gets up to take a piss?” Doc asks.

  I shake my head. If we move toward him now, he might pull out the piece he’s carrying beneath that leather jacket. There are 24,000 plus fans in here, with a great number of children in the mix. If he’s got his weapon of choice, he could make one hell of a mess before he goes down. If only he hadn’t spotted us. I’m mentally cursing that loudmouth sitting behind him.

  “Half, hell. We’re going to have to try and take him on the way out. We can’t let him pull his Uzi. It’ll be a fucking shooting gallery and that little prick doesn’t care how many people he takes down with him.”

  I get on the horn again with the coppers inside the United Center and I tell them what’s going on. One of them suggests that we call for a fire drill, but I respond that it will likely create another kind of panic. We’ll keep our distance from him. Perhaps he might think we’ve been called here for something else. Whatever, we’ll try to disappear out of his sight line and we’ll be waiting for him outside. I tell the uniforms to go on outside, and they do. There are no regular police in the arena itself suddenly. I see Chaka turn once more and look for Doc and me, but we’re up in the exit at the upper bowl. He’s looking where we stood before.

  “We can’t wait and take him outside. This cute little shit’ll take a hostage. He’ll figure out what we’re up to. It’ll be his only option. Then we’ve got a bigger mess than we have now,” I say.

  Doc nods. He figured all that out before I did, I’m sure.

  “So what’s our move?” Doc smiles.

  *

  It’s tied at half. The Sonics wanted to make a statement that they’re not going to get waltzed out of the finals in four straight, and so they’ve played tough and even up with the locals. But I figure the Bulls haven’t let those Dobermans loose quite yet. They usually wait until the fourth quarter to spring at the opposing club’s throats.

  Doc tells me I look the part. Guinea beer vendor. With the Sox hat and the union buttons on my blue vest and the whole thing. Medium-sized greaseball who’s a little taller than Al Pacino — my lookalike, Doc keeps teasing me. If I were Al, I’d have worn out my groin my this time. I don’t see the resemblance.

  I don’t come down the aisle where Chaka saw us last. I walk down the next aisle to his right, but I make sure he never sees my face. I keep a scant profile toward him. He can just barely see my left ear, I figure.

  Then I walk right back up that same row toward the middle aisle that separates the two main bowls. I work my way down toward Chaka with my head bent so all he can see is the crown of my Sox cap — which is a size too small. I was in a hurry.

  I’ve sold six beers and I almost feel like palming the three-fifty a pop. But I’m supposed to be an honest copper.

  I’m about four rows shy of Chaka’s position when he spins around in his seat and takes a look up the stairs. I’ve got my head lowered, trying to fake making change. I wait a half dozen beats, hoping he still won’t be looking up when I do. Doc has my communicator. I’m on my own with this one. It’s loud in here, but any buzzing messages might get him to pull on the whole goddam arena. I slowly resume my way toward him.

  Rodman gets shoved to the floor and everyone is on their feet screaming in protest. The referees have to separate the blond headed black man from another more naturally colored head of hair who’d like to remove Rodman’s limbs without use of artificial means, like a chainsaw or whatever. The crowd is still standing when the referees assess a double technical foul. They jump it up at halfcourt and everybody finally resumes sitting on their asses.

  Only two more rows. A fat white guy in a horrible Hawaiian shirt barks at me for a beer.

  “Come on! Hurry the fuck up! You’re makin’ me miss the whole third fucking quarter!” he shouts as I stumble with the cup and the bottle and the bottle opener and the fistful of singles I’ve got splayed out between my fingers.

  He tries to stiff me on the $3.50 he owes me.

  “Hey. Let’s have the cash,” I tell the blubber ass.

  “Stuff it. You took too long to serve me. Take the fuckin’ loss,” he responds.

  “You want to ride home in a paddy wagon?” I tell him.

  He figures it’s not worth the beef, so he finally shoots me four singles. I walk down another row closer to the black leather jacket.

  “Where’s my fuckin’ half a buck?” the bulb man cries.

  “You took too long paying me,” I shout back over my shoulder.

  Rodman acquires his second technical in thirty seconds. They toss his ass out of the game while I’m one row behind Chaka.

  The fans are on their feet, and so is the guy I’m after.

  Now I’m standing next to his row. He’s the third seat in. Everyone is still screaming profanely at the ref who tossed Rodman.

  I step in front of the two men who are seated next to Chaka. I shove them down into their seats with the edge of my beer bottle basket. They’re about to beller in protest when they see me put the barrel of the .44 Bulldog directly on the forehead of Chaka.

  Chaka closes his eyes. Somebody next to him — it’s a female voice — screams. Then two more voices, decidedly male, joi
n her in a beller that is masked beneath the roar of the basketball crowd.

  Jordan has stolen another errant pass and is en route to another highlight film slam dunk.

  *

  He wasn’t carrying. No Uzi, no handgun, no nothing. Doc blinks painfully when we shake him down and find him clean.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Those are his first and his only words. He’s on the phone with Walter, and in fifteen minutes the lawyer is here. Walter lives on the Gold Coast, and that is why he’s present so rapidly.

  “You have witnesses to place my client at the scene of this homicide?” the counselor smiles.

  “We brought him down here to question him. Doesn’t your client believe in cooperating with a homicide investigation?” Doc asks.

  “Of course he does. But why should he talk to anyone who arrests him in public by placing a pistol barrel on his forehead?”

  “I figured it was the safest way for him and for the other 24,000 people who might’ve been shot to hell if he’d been carrying what he usually does beneath that leather coat. And I’m not referring to his tiny little dick, either,” I tell the lawyer.

  Chaka turns toward me.

  “All I’m gonna tell you is that I had nothing to do with that little kid’s death. I wasn’t there, and I got ten people who’ll tell you I was somewhere else when that boy got shot.”

  “You better line them up. Because you aren’t leaving here until we hear from someone about your whereabouts.”

  “You can’t do this, Parisi You’re just stalling and everybody in this room knows it. So why can’t we just do this the easy way and you let my client walk, because you know the witnesses you were going to use on Anthony Dwight are the same phantoms that were going to place Julius, here, at the scene of the homicide.”

  Chaka’s real name is Julius Johnson.

  He’s got me and he knows it. Doc and I both knew Chaka was gone when we came up empty with the weapon.

  “I’ll have to call my Captain and see how he wants to handle this,” I tell Julius and his mouthpiece.