Two for Flinching

by Todd Morgan

  “The fuck you going?”

  “I need to talk to somebody.”

  He was twenty, twenty-five years old, taller than I was and it was obvious he was well invested in the steroid market. I didn’t recognize him. Four years was a long time and the turnover rate in the game was ridiculously high.

  “Uh uh.” He reached out a hand to stop me.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He smiled, deliberately shoving me with his open palm. I snatched his hand with mine, pushing it back and over, forcing him to his knees. Obviously, he hadn’t recognized me either.

  “Hey, man! What are you doing?” Panic in his voice, fear, more than a little pain.

  I applied even more pressure, hearing a tendon pop. It wouldn’t take much more before his wrist snapped. “I asked you nicely.”

  “Come on, man.” Pleading now.

  “Give it the knock.”

  “Shit. You know what Jeremiah will do to me?”

  “Knock or I’ll break it. Knock wrong and I’ll kill you.”

  He thought about it. I leaned forward, feeling the fragile bones on the verge. He reached behind him, knocked twice, then once. Somebody yelled from inside.

  “Thank you.” I shoved him away and opened the door.

  The pit bull on the right jumped to his feet. The pit bull on the left didn’t move. The one on the left was obviously the more dangerous of the two. He was wearing an old school fedora.

  “Jajuan.”

  He was neither surprised nor concerned—not even interested. He made a noise and the dog settled reluctantly back on her paws. “Bees.”

  “What do you want?” the man behind the desk demanded. Jeremiah Ewing was a year and a half young than me, something of an athletic star in high school before he got kicked out his junior year for attempting to rape his American History teacher. His head was shaved, his scalp so tight I could make out the plates in his skull.

  “How’s Lashelle?”

  “You risk your white ass coming down here to catch up on old times?”

  “No,” I said. “I just always liked Lashelle.”

  I went slowly to Jajuan, turned around and lifted my leather jacket. He pulled the .45—holster and all—from my belt and laid it on the table. The guard at the door banged into the room clutching a sawed-off shotgun. Jajuan stopped him with an upheld hand.

  Jeremiah said, “You’re fucking worthless, Trey. Get out of here.”

  Trey, downcast, left without speaking.

  “I wouldn’t be too hard on him,” I said. “He didn’t know who I was.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “Dumbass. You still look like police.”

  “You heard I left?”

  “I heard your ass got canned.”

  I shrugged. “Professional differences.”

  “Yeah. They wanted a professional. Why you bothering me? You ain’t even police no more.”

  “You remember my partner?”

  “Muthafucka bitch slapping me in the back of that police car? I remember him.”

  I nodded. “I remember pulling him off you.”

  “You sure as hell wasn’t in no hurry. Told me if I came back at him you would make me gone.”

  “Also told you to file a complaint.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You know what happened to him?”

  “No,” Jeremiah said. “What?”

  I studied his face, looking for a tell. I didn’t bother with Jajuan. Jeremiah was angry, indignant at the remembered beating, nothing else. Nothing I could see. I said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “What is this bullshit? You fucking with me?”

  “I only wanted to see if you knew what happened to him.”

  “Man, four years ago I couldn’t take a piss without you two clowns stepping on my nuts. And then I never see you again. Until today.”

  “Jeremiah, there was a shooting down here every week.”

  He gave me an ugly grin. “Now, there’s peace in the valley. Amazing how they go together.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means as soon as you clowns moved on, I could take care of business.”

  “Sounds like a good reason to get rid of him.”

  Jeremiah turned to his bodyguard. “You know what this white boy is talking about?”

  A single shake of the head.

  “Adrian is missing.”

  “So?”

  “For four years.”

  Jeremiah shook his bald dome. “It took this long for you to come talk to me? And you not even police?”

  “Some new information has come up.”

  “You start smoking herb since you left? I want to get less heat by taking out a cop? They’d be all over my ass. I ain’t stupid. The only reason I didn’t green-light your ass is because you police.”

  “That and Lashelle.”

  “Lashelle is dead.”

  “What?”

  Jeremiah gave me a quizzical look. “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course not. I would have come to the services. She was my friend. What happened?”

  “Car wreck.”

  “When?”

  “Three, three and a half years ago.”

  Three and a half years ago I had been in a haze, a fog fueled by a cheating wife, a friend’s betrayal, an infant child and dark rum. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah.”

  “We’re done.”

  I nodded, shaken. Lashelle Ewing and I had been in kindergarten together, all the way through graduation. A childhood friendship that had stood the test of time and distance. It had given me no pleasure to go after her little brother.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Jajuan took me by the elbow and led me into the hallway. There was no sign of Trey. He pushed open the bar to the back door. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to shake it off. “Yeah.”

  “What do police do when they ain’t police no more?”

  “I don’t know. What do shooters do when they ain’t shooting no more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nice hat.”

  I had forgotten how…ordinary Jajuan was. Average height, average build, medium complexion, he never stood out in the crowd. Aside from the hat.

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Now I gotta toss it.” He handed me my gun. “Cracker like you appreciates your style, you know it’s time to change it up.”

  ***

  I had also forgotten how utterly dark it got in the Bottoms once the sun went down. The streetlights had been shot out and the power company had long ago given up on replacing them, the only light leaking from the occasional porch light. The boys on the corners had been joined by whores shivering in their tight miniskirts. Traffic was almost nonexistent, the businessmen and shift workers waiting for the weekend before venturing into the hood for their crack and blowjobs.

  I didn’t drive straight home after my sit-down with Jeremiah, instead wandering aimlessly through the projects. What Jeremiah had said made sense and I was inclined to move him down my list of suspects. Only I didn’t have a list. It would have been a very bad business move for Jeremiah to go after a cop. But I still remembered the humiliation my former partner had inflicted on him—not to mention the beating in the back of that car. Adrian had told me he wanted a minute alone with him and I had obliged, thinking Adrian was going to give Jeremiah an off-the-books threat. The attack shocked me, standing outside the car. As soon as I heard the commotion and the screams, I had jumped into the back, but it took me a while to pull Adrian off. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he had done that. Looking back, I expect the stress had gotten the best of him, the stress of cheating on his wife and working day in and day out with his lover’s husband.

  Jeremiah had tried to go after him—cuffs or not cuffs, cop or no cop—and it took all I had to keep them separated. Jeremiah threatened his life, the life of his wife and kids, promising to burn his house to the ground. And it was true, I
had whispered into Jeremiah’s ear. The whisper reached him, among all the yelling and cursing, the quiet promise it held. He settled right down.

  The gas station was lit up like Fort Knox, floodlights along the front, powerful lamps over the pumps, bars across the windows. I could never understand the bars since the place never closed. I pushed open the door and the little Indian guy at the register perked up, then relaxed. I had personally investigated two robberies at TJ’s, closing one.

  “Evening, officer.”

  I needed to go home and mark this date in my calendar; someone who hadn’t heard of my difficulties at the Sherriff’s Department. “Hey, TJ. How you been?”

  TJ shrugged. “You get transferred or something?”

  I took an overpriced Coke from the cooler. “Or something. You had any more troubles?”

  He shook his head. “Been at least a month since anybody has tried anything.”

  I handed over the money. “I guess word got out about that shotgun under the counter.”

  He grinned and gave me my change. “Don’t be a stranger. Coffee still free for police.”

  I shuddered at the memory of TJ’s toxic brew. “Take care.”

  “You as well.”

  A mid-eighties Cutlass with more rim than rubber had pulled alongside my Jeep. Trey and another kid from the grocery stood on the walkway. Trey said, “You a long way from home, white boy.”

  “Finally.”

  That stopped him. He raised a wary eyebrow. “Finally what?”

  I set the Coke on the ground. “A chance to beat the hell out of somebody.”

  Trey turned to his friend. “Q, you believe this—“

  I kicked him in the jaw, the tip of my boot catching him under his chin. Trey didn’t go down, but was out on his feet, his eyes floating to the back of his head. I spun on Q, side-kicking him in the ribs. His arms instinctively dropped and I jabbed him with my left, following it with an overhand right, another left and finished him with one of my best right hooks to the temple. I let him drop to his knees, fall forward on his hands.

  I looked over my shoulder. Trey had regained at least part of his bearings. He swung a lazy punch and I snatched his wrist, yanking it behind his back. I grabbed the back of his neck and ran him headfirst into the dumpster. Trey collapsed in a heap and did not move.

  The world swam back into focus. The Cutlass backed out in a hurry, tires squealing as it hit the street. I waved to TJ inside the store. TJ shook his head and reluctantly put the twelve gauge out of view. Clapping came from the alley.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  Nero stepped from the shadows into the light. “The day comes you can’t handle Trey and Quentin, you need to stay out of the hood.”

  “I still got it.”

  “You got something.” Nero was a young man, twenty-five years old, a couple inches shorter than me, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist.

  “How’s your mom?”

  Nero said, “She was okay yesterday, not sure about today.” Nero’s mother had been fighting the beast since she was fourteen. She was half-black and half-white, a product of a woman on the street and a businessman on the make. Nero’s father was a mystery. Nero himself could pass for a light-skinned black, dark complexioned white, Hispanic—even Middle Eastern. “How’s the princess?”

  “Good. She was asking about you. Hasn’t seen you since the welcome home party.”

  “Tell her I’ll be by.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I picked you up coming out of the grocery, figuring you might need backup.”

  “And then stood safely back while I battled two gangstas.”

  “Battled.” Nero giggled. “Gangstas.”

  Quin moaned. Trey remained still.

  Nero said, “I’m guessing it didn’t go so good.”

  “It went fine.”

  Nero held out his hands.

  “If it went totally to shit,” I said, “it would’ve been Jajuan.”

  “Why I was following.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s all this?”

  Quin rolled over on his back.

  “Trey put his hands on me.”

  “Ah. Hope he learned the error of his ways.”

  “I doubt it.”

  ***

  Blondie came running at my entrance, sniffed my hand and galloped back into the den. Erin was in my chair, textbooks and notepads balancing precariously on the armrests. Sarah was on the couch, in her princess pajamas, her hair still damp from her bath, the dog now nestled peacefully at her feet.

  “Hey, daddy.”

  “Hey, baby.” I bent to kiss the top of her head, smelling the shampoo and the scent of her simple innocence. “What are you doing?”

  Her eyes never left the screen. “Watching Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

  “Again?”

  “Yep.”

  “How was school today?”

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  “Baby?”

  She blinked, finally looking at me. “Huh?”

  I gave her my stern face.

  “Sir?”

  “How was school?” I repeated.

  “Good.”

  I squeezed into the other end of the couch. “No problems?”

  “Nope.”

  “No timeouts?”

  “Well.” She went into defense mode. “There was one small problem.”

  “What was it?”

  “Courtney had my toy and wouldn’t share.”

  “And you took it from her?”

  “Uh huh.”

  More stern face.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And the teacher put you in timeout?”

  “Yes sir. Not for long, though,” she quickly added. “Courtney is not my friend anymore.”

  “Honey, just because someone doesn’t give you what you want doesn’t mean they’re not your friend.”

  “Okay. She can be my friend tomorrow.”

  “Good. Glad that’s all settled.”

  Sarah went back to the movie she had seen a thousand times.

  Erin said, “Uncle Bees?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I was thinking about going home this weekend. Is that a problem?”

  I did a quick mental rundown of my schedule. Wide open. Too open. “Nope. That’s fine.”

  “I’m going to leave Thursday afternoon.”

  “What about Friday’s classes?”

  “Cutting ‘em.”

  “Oh.” There was probably some sort of adult advice I should give her, but couldn’t come up with it. Not after all the classes I had skipped. “You taking Scott home to meet the family?”

  Erin shot me a look, the look I had gotten maybe a million times from her mother. “I’m going to my room to study. You got this?”

  I grinned at her. “Sure.”

  She gathered her books in her arms. “Good night.”

  “Erin?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  She shook her head. “You too.”

  And I settled in to watch a movie I had seen a thousand times.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Hello.”

  “What have you done now?”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “The Jenks divorce. What else have I had you working on?”

  “Uh…what do you mean?”

  “I just got off the phone with Cynthia and she wants me to put everything on ice.”

  “The divorce is off?”

  “No, not yet. She told me to put it on hold.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem for you. I thought lawyers loved to drag things out.”

  “Normally, I would agree. I think she is getting cold feet.”

  “Maybe she still loves him.”

  “We were all set to make some serious coin on this, Beason. Both of us.”

  “I doubt you’ll have any problems making the mortgage.”

  “Probably not. Bu
t the missus was all set on redoing the kitchen.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Love, Beason? Really?”

  ***

  Bo looked up, saw me coming, buzzed the lock and went back to his paper. It had to have been a really interesting article to keep him from our repartee. I went up the stairs and down the hall. Randy and Larry were huddled together at their desks.

  Randy said, “What do you want?”

  It’s good to be missed. “How you boys doing today?”

  “Terrible. And it just got worse.”

  “That’s great.” I took a visitor’s chair on the other side. “You got time for a couple of questions?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the latest with Jeremiah?”

  Larry said, “That was your problem.”

  “Was being the key word. Why haven’t you put him away yet?”

  “Because he isn’t causing us any problems.”

  “Huh. I went to the Bottoms and it doesn’t look as if it has changed much.”

  Randy carefully set the manila folder on his desktop. “Jeremiah has consolidated his power base since you got canned. He’s the only shot caller left down there. There is nobody for him to kill.”

  “So what? You giving him a pass on all the dope he’s moving?”

  Randy made a face. “Of course not. But things are stable and when he goes down, there will be another war to take over the top spot. Jeremiah is not a…priority.”

  “Ah.”

  Larry said, “The murder rate down there has plummeted. It didn’t hurt that your boy Nero left town.”

  “Nero is back.” As soon as I let the words go, I regretted it.

  “What?” Randy said, instantly alarmed. “When?”

  “A couple of weeks back.”

  Larry shook his head. “Trouble on the way. Jeremiah know?”

  “I’m sure he does, but Nero isn’t going after him.”

  Randy said, “Why not?”

  “Nero has no interest in…organization. He’s moving on to something else.”

  “That’s what concerns me.”

  Larry said, “Where has been anyway?”

  “Afghanistan.”