What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “Oh! Look at him,” Jazz said, peering down. “He’s one of those homeless creeps.”

  “He’s homeless, and he’s my friend. Those bastards beat him and then shot him up with dope. He only came in here to get the binder they’d taken from him.”

  “He looks dead,” Jazz said.

  “I hope not. Please, God, let him be alive,” Zoie said. With two fingers she checked his pulse at his neck. The pulse was there but very weak. “Okay, he’s still alive. Look, we have to hurry. You have to help me get him out of here.” She unwrapped the steak knife and cut the heavy twine bindings from his wrists and ankles.

  “I’m glad your friend is alive, but he’s too big to carry.”

  “I know. We’re going to put him on this tarp and drag him out of here.” After Jazz heard the plan, her eyes widened. “We have to move,” continued Zoie. “They may come back anytime.”

  Space by the table was tight. Zoie spread the tarp in the room’s entryway, close to the door, leaving enough space for the door to open. She lowered Maynard’s head to the floor, straightened his body as best she could, and then grabbed his heels and pulled him with all her might. “Sorry, Maynard,” she grunted. “This is the only way to get you out of here. Jazz, do something. Hold that tarp straight.”

  Jazz responded as if waking from a dream. Straining, Zoie pulled Maynard onto the tarp, and Jazz maneuvered the tarp to go underneath him. Zoie rose from her stooped position, holding her back. “He’s one heavy dude.”

  “I’m really scared,” Jazz said. “If they come back and find us, they’ll kill us, right?”

  “Right, because we know too much.”

  Initially Jazz was reluctant to touch Maynard. With more prompting she finally pitched in and helped Zoie arrange Maynard on the tarp. “Do they know about you? Do they know your name ain’t Anna?”

  “Yes, and they know my real name. They killed a guy I know because he knew too much, and they set fire to my grandmother’s house so I’d keep my mouth shut. They also robbed my apartment.”

  “Hey! You still got an apartment?”

  In the heat of the moment, Zoie had made another slip. Her undercover persona was unraveling like a loose thread on a sweater’s hem. “Yeah, I still have an apartment,” Zoie admitted, still portraying her original lie as a minor inaccuracy. “I have an apartment, but I haven’t been able to go back there because these characters might be waiting for me. So I have nowhere to stay.”

  “Oh,” Jazz said, accepting that explanation.

  “They’re very dangerous. And now you see, Jazz, selling khat is not all they do. They’ll get rid of anyone who gets in their way.”

  “Hmm. Well, I don’t want to be in their way. Now I remember. Cat is what they call those leaves. Cat, like kitty cat. African people love this stuff. I don’t see any regular black folks who want to chew a mouthful of leaves. For anybody that wants to, more power to ’em. Sister Te says it ain’t like coke, crack, smack, or weed. She says it shouldn’t be illegal ’cause it just gives you a buzz…like too much coffee.”

  Zoie refrained from commenting on khat’s classification as a minor drug. For one thing, Zoie didn’t know much about it. And she wanted Jazz to focus on their task: getting themselves and Maynard to safety.

  So far Jazz hadn’t really reacted to the revelation that her new best friend’s name wasn’t Anna. And the young woman hadn’t even asked for her real name. Jazz seemed more bewildered by these revelations than upset by them. It was as if the young woman were operating with a seven-second delay. Zoie was fully expecting that Jazz’s next big question would be, who are you really? In the meantime Zoie wasn’t volunteering a full explanation. Once their deadly misadventure was over, Zoie intended to provide Jazz with a complete explanation—that is, if she still had breath to do the telling and if Jazz was still alive to listen.

  Sister Te had clearly convinced Jazz that the khat business was about the same degree of moral transgression as prostitution—in other words, no big deal. And for sure less of an offense than selling hard drugs. In any case, Jazz must have witnessed plenty of drug dealing on the streets.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here. We’ve got go!” Wasting no time, Zoie retrieved Maynard’s binder from where it still sat precariously on the table’s edge. She secured it under Maynard’s butt. “He’ll want this when he wakes up.”

  “If he wakes up,” Jazz added.

  “Let’s be positive. Come on—help me.” Zoie wrapped the knife in a towel she found under the table, and she put the wrapped knife and the cut bindings in the tarp. Working quickly, she pulled the two corners of the tarp together, partly covering Maynard’s head, and bid Jazz to perform the same maneuver at his feet. Working in tandem, they pulled Maynard out of the building. Zoie turned off the lights and closed the door.

  “Where we taking him?” Jazz asked.

  “Somewhere where they can’t find him. Somewhere where he can hold out until an ambulance gets here.” Zoie wiped her brow with the back of her hand and thought for a second. “I’ve got an idea.”

  In the tarp Maynard’s body formed a wide U as the two women struggled with his deadweight. Zoie kept her end of the tarp lifted so that his head wouldn’t bump along the ground. Jazz did a similar thing at her end, near his feet. Maynard’s side took the brunt of the rough journey along the concrete. The women huffed and puffed as they dragged him up the drive’s slight incline and then across the middle of the courtyard to Zoie’s target location—the dumpster near the Pen. The courtyard debris dug into Zoie’s bare soles, but fear enabled her to put up with the discomfort.

  “We can stick him behind this,” said Zoie, finally stopping in front of the bin. “They’ll never think to look here. Let’s do it quickly!”

  The dumpster’s overflowing bags provided a tunnel of sorts in the crevice between the dumpster and the loading dock. There was just enough room to put Maynard in that space. The overflowing garbage bags provided cover in case anyone looked down from the loading dock. The garbage stank, but at least the swarm of flying insects Zoie had seen earlier had retreated for the night. With the flashlight to guide her, Zoie crawled into the crevice and pulled the tarp from her end. It wasn’t the best of places to put him, but she told herself that at least he was out of the khat house. Considering the beating he’d taken and the drug injection, he was lucky to be alive. He still could have internal bleeding, but it was promising that he hadn’t died within minutes of the lethal injection. Maybe that meant that he had survived the worst of it. As Jazz stood by the dumpster, Zoie scanned the courtyard with her flashlight and used her bare feet to wipe away any trail that dragging the tarp had left.

  “God, I’d like to see their faces when they find out that he’s gone.”

  “Not me. I don’t want to see their faces at all,” Jazz said.

  “You’re right about that. Okay, Jazz, let’s get out of here. But first I’m asking you—just as Sister Te asked you—please don’t say anything.”

  “Sister Te never asked me. She told me. She said keep my mouth shut. She never even said please.”

  Zoie hugged Jazz and then put an arm around the young girl’s waist and led her up to the loading dock and inside the Pen. Exhausted, Zoie wiped her forehead with her bloodied shirt and took several deep breaths before taking a minute to brush the bits of courtyard grit digging into her soles.

  “Want your shoes back?” Jazz asked.

  “Later. Let’s just get inside. I have to call 911.”

  “Then we got to deal with police.” Jazz frowned and shook her head. “They’ll lock me up. I got a rap sheet.”

  “Look, Jazz, you don’t have to be part of this. I won’t say anything about your helping me. I won’t say anything about your working with Sister Te.”

  “Anna…oh, I mean whoever you really are.”

  “What, Jazz?” It was truly weird. Jazz still didn’t seem to be bothered that Zoie’s name wasn’t Anna. She guessed hookers had their real names and their str
eet aliases. So maybe the whole name thing was, as Jazz would say, no big deal.

  “Girl, you better give me back my book light!” The spunky, streetwise Jazz had returned.

  Zoie knew that Jazz was only feigning anger. “Sure. Thanks. It was helpful.” The light still clung to her belt loop through everything. She detached it and handed it to Jazz.

  “Are you still gonna be my partner with the website?”

  For a second Zoie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. In her head she heard her grandmother’s voice. Her southern cadence would become warm but forceful when she meant to give a warning or life advice. The voice conveyed the old adage about the appropriateness of a lie: “Remember, Zo, sometimes the truth is overrated. Not everybody’s ready to hear the whole truth at any given moment.”

  Zoie squeezed the young girl’s hand. “Of course, Jazz,” Zoie said. Alas, her deception had to persist. There would be no apologies or explanation. The truth was for later. This lie was for now.

  Chapter 45

  Is Help on the Way?

  Zoie and Jazz leaned against the Pen’s brick wall, sweating and exhausted after moving Maynard’s lifeless body across the courtyard and stowing him behind the dumpster. Even in the perceived safety of the chain-link enclosure, their adrenaline pumped.

  “I need a cigarette,” Jazz said, wiping her runny nose with the tail of her flimsy pajama shirt.

  “Yeah, and I need a drink,” Zoie said as she leaned forward and braced herself with her hands on her knees.

  A car beam from down the driveway called them to attention. Without a word they hustled inside the Shelter. In minutes Tarik and his crew would learn that Maynard or what they thought to be his dead body was missing. Zoie led Jazz down the passageway to the still-quiet Great Room. “Please, God, don’t let them find Maynard,” she said.

  “Please, God, don’t let them find us,” Jazz chimed in.

  “I thought no men could come into this section.”

  “Those are the rules, but now I don’t know.”

  “Quick, Jazz, where’s a phone?”

  Jazz thought for a second. She seemed confused. She was proving that she didn’t operate well under stress.

  Zoie wanted to shake her. “Pull yourself together, Jazz!” she commanded in a loud whisper. “Stay with me now. Think! Where’s a phone?”

  “Umm…there’s a phone in Annette’s office,” Jazz finally offered. “But she may be in there, and when she’s not, she keeps her door locked.”

  “Think again!” Zoie demanded. “What about the other women? Does someone have a cell phone?”

  “Yeah, Cruz. But she’s asleep.”

  “We’ll just have to wake her.”

  With Zoie in the lead, the two women rushed through the dimly lit halls, heading back to their dorm room. Jazz pointed out Cruz, who was sleeping on the lower bunk opposite to Jazz’s. Zoie peeked at the dark courtyard. Both cars had returned. Four men now stood next to an opened trunk. Jazz peeked through the curtains at the window’s other end.

  “Okay, we have to get that phone,” Zoie whispered loudly. “Do you know where she keeps it?”

  “Yeah, in her locker.”

  “Damn!” Zoie shined the flashlight in the woman’s face and gently shook her. “Cruz, wake up,” Zoie whispered, trying not to disturb the top bunk’s occupants, Martha and Tanisha. Cruz’s eyes opened and tried to stare into the flashlight beam.

  “What’s going on? Is there a fire or something?”

  “No, Cruz. But it’s an emergency. I need to use your phone to call 911.”

  The woman sat up and rubbed an eye. “What’s the emergency? Why can’t Annette call?”

  “Shh. Keep your voices down!” Zoie commanded in a loud whisper. “Cruz, it’s a long story. Right now we need your help.”

  Jazz whispered, “This is serious stuff. We can’t ask Annette to help.”

  “But why?”

  “Roomie, you need to trust me on this one,” Jazz answered, finally sounding engaged.

  Zoie looked back at Jazz. So Jazz did know more. She knew that Annette was in on the drug operation. It made sense. The night counselor worked directly for Sister Te. She lived at the Shelter and ran the place like a benevolent warden—but a warden, nevertheless. That meant that Tarik could gain access to the women’s section. Yes, Jazz had known all along, but she hadn’t mentioned the Annette link. It wasn’t as if Jazz had withheld information. It was that Zoie had failed to ask the right question: Who else is involved?

  “Come on, Cruz,” Jazz begged. “We need your phone. Didn’t I lend you fifty dollars to take your kids to the movies?”

  “Okay, okay.” Cruz swung her bare legs to the edge of her bunk. She grabbed her standard-issue robe from the foot of her bunk to cover her bra and panties sleepwear. Zoie and Jazz followed Cruz to her locker and watched as she retrieved her basic flip phone and turned it on.

  Seeing the phone’s display light, Zoie grabbed it from Cruz’s hand. She moved past the bathroom and to the darkest part of the hall to distance herself from her roommates. Taking a deep breath, she dialed 911.

  This time when a 911 operator came on, Zoie was able to give her the Shelter’s name and approximate location. “Yes, there’s a seriously injured man here. He’s hidden behind the dumpster out back…his name is Maynard…no, I don’t know his last name…he was beaten and injected with a drug overdose…yes, I witnessed the whole thing…I’m not sure what the drug is…the men who beat him are still around. They’re in a little house in the back of the Shelter…yes, I’m a resident at the Shelter…what’s my connection? Witness, concerned citizen, and friend of the victim…yes, I’m calling from the Shelter. I’m here inside the women’s wing. The men who did this are very dangerous…look you need to hurry. If they find him, they’ll kill him…there’s at least four of them. Tell the police and the ambulance to come down the drive in back of the Shelter. Please hurry!”

  Just as Zoie finished the 911 call, a person who could only have been the infamous Annette appeared at the other end of the hall. Even from a distance, Zoie could tell that the woman consumed healthy meals and exercised with more than padded wrist weights. Zoie stuffed Cruz’s flip phone into her waistband, next to the battery-dead Blackberry.

  “Ladies, what’s going on?” Annette asked as she neared Jazz and Cruz. The boom of her voice matched her muscular physique. She didn’t seem concerned that she might wake the other residents. “What’s with the hall convention at this hour?”

  Jazz and Cruz huddled together like children waiting to be brought to task.

  “Ladies, give me the short version! What’s going on?” Annette bellowed.

  Cruz said, “We were helping our new roommate.”

  Slouched with arms wrapped behind her, Jazz bit her bottom lip. Her gaze shifted nervously—right, left, and then to the floor.

  “Oh, yeah, Anna something or other,” Annette said. “Is that cramped space bothering you, ladies? I thought it was a bad idea to force another cot into that tight space. Is that what’s going on?” Annette directed her question to Jazz. “So what’s Anna’s problem?”

  Tilting her head, Jazz shrugged. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

  Cruz was about to pipe in to offer volatile information about the night’s events, but Jazz poked a finger in her roommate’s side, squelching any extra commentary.

  “So why didn’t she come and see me?” Annette asked. “Does she need a doctor or something?”

  Jazz shrugged again. Cruz, confused from having received the message to shut up, observed the silence with a shrug.

  “Hey, Anna. Are you okay? Can I help you?” Annette called down the hall. As Annette approached, Zoie moved into the light, pouting and feigning discomfort. “So, Anna, what’s the problem?” Annette asked in a tone of true concern. “Oh my goodness! Look at the blood on your face and your shirt! What happened?”

  Amid the night’s pressing events, Zoie forgot all about the blood evidence on her clothing.
Her feigned malady had to match the symptoms. “I had a nosebleed,” she said. The survival-mode lie dripped from her lips like melting ice cream. She’d become adept at conjuring tales to fit the situation.

  Annette towered over Zoie. She lifted Zoie’s chin for a cursory inspection of Zoie’s nose. “Humph. I don’t see any blood or crusting in your nose.”

  “That’s because I washed it off in the bathroom.”

  “Umm,” said Annette, releasing Zoie’s chin, “do you know what caused it? Do you have high blood pressure?”

  “I’m not sure, but I still feel a little dizzy.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No. I’m better, really,” Zoie said quickly.

  “Well, let’s make sure it’s stopped. A cold compress stops a nosebleed. Let’s go to the kitchen and get you an ice pack. And you should see a doctor later today. I’ll give you a referral for Dr. Clark. He’s just down the road. That way you don’t have to go to the emergency room.”

  Annette put her arm around Zoie and led her slowly down the hall, toward the Great Room. “You ladies should go back to bed,” she told Jazz and Cruz, as well as the other women who were now standing in their doorways. “I can handle this.”

  As she passed her two roommates, Zoie shared a knowing glance with Jazz. How long will it take for the police and ambulance to get here?

  Zoie hadn’t known the Shelter’s exact address. She was counting on the Shelter being in DC’s emergency-response database. As she held the ice pack that Annette had given her for the feigned nosebleed, her thoughts went to Maynard, who probably was still unconscious and behind the dumpster.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Annette asked. “You seem a little spacey.”

  “No, I’m better, really.” Her nose was cold, and she started to think that if she held the ice pack to her sinuses any longer, she’d suffer brain freeze.

  Each minute of waiting seemed like an hour. At least the thugs weren’t storming the women’s section in search of Maynard. Zoie’s brain cycled through what Tarik and his cohorts must be thinking. He was probably scratching his head and trying to figure out how the man he’d beaten, drugged, and left for dead managed to escape. Had he walked out? Someone had to have opened the door from the inside. Had Tarik discovered that the binder was also missing? Only the beaten man would’ve wanted the binder. Were the coded messages valuable to someone else? So far, thankfully, they hadn’t called Annette. If they did, she’d make the connection between the bloodstains and Maynard.