Vacant MC

by Bella Knight

  “Peanut butter shake, and mozzarella sticks,” said Freya. “The baby is sleeping, and so is your wife. Herja is there, running laundry. We need our own Wolfpack to do all the errands and watch the kids and stuff.”

  “We need to purchase an apartment house or a house with a lot of bedrooms, then,” said Bob.

  “I’ll look into it. Have to do it for the Soldier Pack anyway. I’m doing a training here in order to learn that part of the business. I want to open my own shop, not here, but a little farther out. Maybe homeschool.”

  “Teachers everywhere breathe a sigh of relief,” said Bob. “Seriously, run Henry’s program here. Got to start it up sometime.”

  Freya sighed. “Wasn’t planning on running a giant farm. More of a shop with an apartment over it.”

  “Good enough,” said Bob. “We support you.”

  “I know,” said Freya. She fist-bumped Bob and took off with a roar.

  Bob made it to see Rhodes. Her foster mother had four other kids in the house, and she looked just about ready to tear her hair out. Bob walked with Rhodes down the street to McDonald’s. Freya was there, and Rhodes ran into her arms. Bob gave Rhodes her book and article, and Freya and Rhodes marveled over the article while consuming chicken burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. They sat outside on a bench to attempt not to terrify the mothers and their children from all the f-bombs flying around. They got into arguments about tactics, and Rhodes held her own against Freya’s obvious intelligence.

  Bob walked Rhodes back, and said, “Freya’s got a three-bedroom apartment. Your foster mom will have a cow, so make an attempt to behave. In three weeks, she’ll be done with her classes, then we’ve got to convince caseworkers that she’s awesome, and that you are a good fit.”

  “So, you want me to not be me for a few weeks,” said Rhodes.

  “No, I want you to not get into a fight at school. Walk away. Hang out in the library, your books all out. Do your homework there. Ms. Rasan’s house is noisy anyway, with four other kids.”

  “Rutan stole my money until I made ghost noises all night. I set my alarm to wake up every hour on the hour to make the noises. It worked. He hasn’t touched a thing of mine since.”

  Bob sighed. He mentally voted Rhodes to be an expert on psychological warfare in ten years at West Point. “And, hold back on the tactics until the move. Constraints now, constraints removed later.”

  “Constraints,” said Rhodes. “I get it now. Okay, you’ve got a fucking deal.” They shook.

  Bob returned Rhodes to her foster mother, then went back to the office to slam out paperwork and emails. He did a stack of one and a huge amount of the other, while listening to a podcast on community policing procedures.

  Rita, his gum-popping, purple-haired assistant, popped her head in, and said, “You realize you’re married with an infant at home, right?” she said.

  “I hate reality sometimes,” said Bob. “If I don’t catch up, this stuff multiplies to the point it becomes impossible. If I don’t go home, my wife will remove my balls with a rusty knife. I can’t win.”

  Rita laughed. “I’ll set a twenty-five-minute alarm, order from Marciano’s, and you can pick it up on the way home. Balls will stay intact.”

  “Good move,” said Bob. “Cover me, I’m going in.” Rita laughed again. He banged through more emails and slammed out almost all of his inbox. “Five minutes,” he called out. “Two more of these things.” He signed a report, then another, turned off his computer, stuffed his law enforcement journals into his soft briefcase, and turned off the light. Rita locked his door and followed him out. Deputies Dan Rydan and Tracey Maisa were in the bullpen, partway through swing shift. He said goodbye and took off.

  Marciano’s son Ricky came running out, took his credit card, and ran it. Bob gave him a sizable tip, and zipped home.

  Xenia had the baby in a papoose pack. Bob set out the lobster ravioli, garlic bread, and two San Pellegrino’s. He put it onto plates, and watched his wife eat like a starving woman. She guzzled her water, and so he got her some cherry water from the refrigerator. He went up to change and then he came down in shorts and a shirt. He put the papoose pack on himself, cleaned up the kitchen, and put his wife in front of the TV with a comedy. He walked Diana all around until she slept, and then he sat down with his wife. They fell asleep holding hands.

  Bob took first bottle, and got Diana changed and fed without waking up Xenia, a minor miracle. He sat down to watch a late-night show, then slipped into sleep after the monologue. When Diana woke up again, he walked them all to bed while his wife breast-fed, and he stumbled to bed, hearing his wife sing to Diana. Xenia put Diana in the bassinet. He awoke to Diana’s coughs, the beginnings of her cries, and fed, burped, and changed her. He fell asleep with her in the papoose pack in the rocking chair. She woke again, and the feeding/changing/burping process began again. Diana slept again, and this time he put her in the bassinet. He slept hard and slept right through the next feeding.

  When he woke up, he shook the zombie out of himself, took a moderately cold shower, and went into work. He finished off the paperwork and a dozen more emails. He did his time on the speeding-ticket circuit, right in a school zone. Fines in Nevada for speeding in school zones were set at over two hundred dollars minimum, so the met his quota quickly and kept kids safe at the same time.

  He drove through a coffee shop service window, and then got two frozen coffee drinks. He consumed both at his desk until his eyes screamed. He then went to lunch, partway to Mrs. Freeson’s house. Mrs. Freeson had a nightly prowler. He suspected a neighborhood kid was deliberately frightening the woman, an eighty-two-year-old woman who had lived in the same neighborhood on the edge of town for forty-eight years. He circled the neighborhood like a shark, looking for suspects. The kids were all riding skateboards and bikes and/or walking along. He had no idea how they could play in the heat, but they did. One kid glared at him, wearing a tank top and baggy shorts, with spikes of black hair on his head.

  Bob stopped and went over to him. “My name’s Bob. What’s yours?”

  “You that white pig that shoots black kids?” asked the boy.

  Bob struggled to keep his face impassive. Where did they get that stuff? “No,” he said. “In fact, my office has the highest number of non-white deputies in the county.” He looked at the boy’s dusky, sweaty, dusty face. He’d been in the sun awhile. “Still didn’t get your name.”

  “Pig,” said the boy.

  “You don’t look like a pig,” said Bob. “You’re kinda skinny.”

  “No, you’re a pig! A pig cop!” said the boy.

  “I don’t look like a pig, either,” said Bob. “You got parents? Grandparents? A guardian?”

  “Hey!” said the boy. “White cop hassling me! Pig!”

  Clarence Woodrow, street name Doughboy, walked down the street, his huge frame bouncing as he walked. He was African American, with a wide face and huge arms and legs. He wore a huge yellow T-shirt and black and blue striped shorts.

  “Hey, Doughboy,” said Bob. He and Clarence bumped fists.

  “What up?” asked Doughboy.

  “This little man’s been calling me a pig and accused me of shooting little black boys,” said Bob. “Haven’t done that. I’d remember if I had.”

  Doughboy looked down his wide nose at the boy. “Jeeter, you ‘pologize, right now. That cop be behaving. He come down here, hep wif de community center n’ stuff. Get us basketballs an’ get da potholes fixed. Got da response time ta here ‘bout six minutes. Useta be twenty.”

  “He hasslin’ me!” shouted Jeeter.

  Doughboy casually, and very lightly, smacked Jeeter in the back of the head. “What he as’ you? Ya name?”

  “Ya!” said Jeeter.

  “That ain’t hasslin,’ that just politeness. How he gonna talk to ya, he not know ya name?” Doughboy said. He turned to Bob. “There a problem?”

  “Someone’s been messing with Mrs. Freeson. Been rattling her door, banging on her
windows,” said Bob. “At night, usually around three in the morning.”

  “That be Dawson. She usta let him crash when he was good. He be her best friend Tri’s grandson. Tri done-got killed. She tried ta take ‘im in, but he done got into da drugs. Got popped, went to juvie. She took him back two times ‘fore he killed her cat when he was high. Got outta jail two momfs ago, done blame her when she was tryin’ to do his skinny junkie ass a fava. Stole money from her, too.”

  “I’m gonna have to take him back in if he keeps it up,” said Bob. “Prefer to let the man live his life.”

  “I can respec’ dat,” said Doughboy. “Be havin’ a chat with the man, suggest he get his ass to some otha place.”

  “I’ll give him a bus ticket if he wants a ride out of town to a new place,” said Bob. “Get a fresh start.”

  “Boy could use some time in Reno,” said Doughboy. “Mebbe he be gettin’ a job, get his life back togetha.” He sighed. “Meet tha brotha at the bus station, two ovus. Get his ass a new life.”

  “Will do,” said Bob. He handed out coupons for two free meals at the chicken-and-fish place right next to the train station. “You two get a meal, and I’ll put him on the bus.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a third meal ticket. “Just in case.”

  Doughboy grinned at him. “Love me dem fish nuggets. Ya’ll have a good day, cop-man.”

  “You too, Doughboy. See you in two hours.”

  Bob went to his car. As he got in, he heard Doughboy say to Jeeter, “Dat’s how ya deal with da hood problems. Now da man ain’t comin’ back in heah, got no cause to.”

  “He still a pig,” said Jeeter.

  “Boy, you as dumb as a box of rocks,” said Doughboy.

  Bob drove over to the house and told Mrs. Freeson about the cause of her problem. She cried. “Wish I could have helped him. But, he got mean. Killed my cat. She was sixteen years old.” She was shaking. “I didn’t tell you about that boy because I thought he was still in jail.”

  “I’ve got a plan to not arrest him,” said Bob. “Get him some help.”

  “You do that,” said Mrs. Freeson, tears in her ancient eyes, running down her cheeks. “Be stunned if it works, but please try. We all have. I just ain’t got no more trying in me.”

  Bob met Doughboy and Dawson at the chicken place, and paid for the rail-thin, gray, shaking Dawson to get a bus to Reno. Dawson looked embarrassed. His nose was running. “Ya tell my grandma’s fren’ I’s sorry,” he said. “Mad ‘cause I cain’t get myself clean.”

  Bob handed him the card with information about the NA meeting three doors down from the Reno bus station. “These people will speak your language, talk to you like you are a real man, get you some help. You go there the minute you get off the bus, you hear?”

  “Yeah,” said Dawson. “Yeah.”

  Bob put the shaking man on a bus, then went to the vet he knew, Jemma Stone. “Jemma, you know of any elderly cats that need a home?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “I’ll have Pinter at the shelter fork her over to you. Short-haired gray, named Smoke, just a love. Her owner died.”

  “I’ll be right there,” said Bob. He paid for all the cat’s shots, a carrier, food, and litter, and drove the sleeping cat to Mrs. Freeson’s house.

  The elderly woman was surprised, then smiled a huge smile, and petted Smoke until she purred deeply. “We’re going to get along just fine,” she said to Smoke. “Thank you.” He left the food and litter on the spotless counter, left the cat’s immunization book out so she could see when to take the cat to the vet next, and saw himself out.

  Doughboy and Jeeter were across the street. “You see?” Doughboy said to Jeeter. “That white cop didn’t have to get dat grandma a cat, even brought food and litter for it. He cool, man.”

  Jeeter said, “He’s still a pig.”

  Doughboy shoved him. “Boy, you ain’t worth talking to.” Bob smiled and drove away.

  Relocation

  Ghost sat with the Ghosties, Skuld, Rota, and Tori right behind her. “Ya gotta get off da stuff,” said Ghost. “Ya pushas be gettin’ ya ta not think, put yasef in a postion ta be hurt.”

  “Fuck you,” said China, a half-Chinese, half-black girl.

  “Girl, ya is me,” said Ghost. “I think, anyone come in heah, trying ta ‘help’ me, be some sorry-ass white chick, feelin’ sorry fa me. Lookit dis face. I look like I feel sorry for ya? Naw. Da world, it don’ give a shit ‘bout you an’ me. Only people ya ken count on is ya sistas.”

  “An’ who iz dese?” asked a tiny girl called Little Bit.

  “Dese is da Valkyries. Ya see, I be makin’ a real good livin’ buildin’ dem Harleys. Da big trikes. Roarin’ down da street like thunda. Den, I make more money, havin’ other people’s babies who cain’t have none. Den, I make da little Harleys, make mo’ dat green. Now, my wifey n’ I be livin’ good. Not in no penthouse, but gotta condo. Makin’ da green ever’ day, even when I sleep.”

  “Well, fuck you,” said China. “Ain’t no way for us ta get ta know stuff like dat.”

  “Ain’t true,” said Ghost. “I be openin’ a sweatshop and school. Not like da school now. Dis online school let ya roll back, go at ya own pace. I still takin’ stuff. Be lookin’ fo’ da new path. New way ta make da green.”

  “Sweatshop?” asked Little Bit. “Like dose places, dem girls sew da jeans, da pretty-type dresses, no air conditioning? Count me out.”

  “No, be a ‘partment house. ‘Bout ten blocks from heah, neah da Popeye’s. Ya live in a dorm, two girls in a room, spaces ta cook, ta make da stuff. Da Harley stuff, and otha stuff.”

  “Dat’s offa Martin Luther King,” said Blue, a tall girl with blue-black skin and narrowed eyes. “Be just outta da hood. In da Hispanic neighborhood.”

  “It be a small ‘partment house,” repeated Ghost. “We show ya what ta make, how ta make it. If ya want da otha jobs, gotta be doin’ da right stuff first. No drugs, no turnin’ tricks. No datin’ for a minute o’ two. Ya kin get betta people. Ya wanna bone, fine, but use da protection. We kin take ya to a docta. Got a shot, you have no babies fo’ three months. Give ya time to see if ya like da program. If not,” Ghost gestured, “da streets ain’t goin’ nowhere. Ya wanna go back out, get high, throw it away, den go. Dis is fo’ da serious folk. Not no stupids, not see what we got goin’ on.”

  “I’m in,” said Blue. “Last asshole broke my stuff, an’ two ‘o my ribs. Ya promise ta show me how ta get a condo like yours, works fa me.”

  “Me too,” said Thorn, a girl with tight braids. “My mama be drunk o’ high alla time now, be bringin’ home da nasty boys. I kin bring ma baby brother?”

  “Cost ya,” said Ghost. “Savin’ money sharin’ da ‘partment.”

  Tori said, “Give them pods, like the Wolfpack. Can fit the boy and his sister in the same room.”

  “Yeah,” said Ghost. “Ya kin learn how ta build da pods. Mebbe we kin find a way ta sell ‘em. Callie don’ have time.”

  Herja laughed. “That woman’s in six places at once.”

  “Dis a group home?” asked Little Bit. “Las’ one had a girl beat me up, stole my stuff.”

  “Better den da street,” said Ghost, “But, no. Ya’ll old ‘nuf ta behave, not let nobody steal ya stuff. An’ ya money goin’ to rent, food, a little ta savings. Once ya ova dat, ya gotta card. Spend it on whateva ya want. Don’ care, as long as no drugs. Don’ tolerate dat shit. Ya work an’ go ta school four days a week. Ya wanna spend res’ a ya time playin’ video games, s’okay. Don’ care.”

  “Which school we gon’ to?” asked Blue. “Dey kicked me outta Central and Grover.”

  “Ya stay at home, do it on some tablets. We come by, help ya finish ya work, four hours a day. Den, da work, o’ mix it up. Den, ya kin do what ya want.” Ghost waved a hand.

  Their eyes grew wide. “What the fuck?” asked China. “Ya high? Dey tryin’ ta lock us up eight hours a day in school, don’ teach us nothin’ but ya gotta plan we only gotta go for
four?”

  “Alla kids we got doin’ it now, dem da Native ‘merican kids, alla dem be goin’ to college o’ da trades, like buildin’ houses o’ Harleys. Or growin’ plants. Dey doin’ fine, and dey got worse schools den ya.” Ghost grinned.

  “I gotta kid,” said Orange, the girl with an orange jacket hanging on her too-tall frame.

  “Mebbe my brudda an’ ya kid kin share a room,” said Thorn. “We gotta share, but we kin mebbe mark off part ‘a da ‘partment fa playin’, you know fo’ da kids.”

  “I be in,” said Orange. “Ya take me ‘n my kid, yeah.”

  “We in,” said Thorn. “Sistas be helpin’ each utha.”

  “Y’all’s cray-cray,” said China. “I’s gone.” She glared at Little Bit, but Little Bit pretended not to see her. China disappeared around the corner.

  “Ya’ll wanna ride Harleys?” asked Ghost. “Got my trike, and some Low Riders. Tori brought da van. Dose got a kid o’ brotha, go wit’ her.”

  “I’ll follow,” said Skuld. “This could get dirty.”

  Tori grinned. “I hope so.”

  They loaded up and took them to the apartment house. They were small, but clean, with used furniture —beds, sofas, tables, lamps. There was a flat-screen TV bolted to the wall, and basic cable TV. Little Bit and Blue explored everything, including the galley kitchen and the hot shower and bath.

  “This be real-good,” said Blue, to Ghost. “When da we start work?”

  Ghost grinned. “Tomorrow good enough fo’ ya?”

  Meanwhile, Tori, Rota, and Skuld went with Orange and Thorn to pick up Orange’s boy. He was just getting out of school. He wore older but serviceable shorts and a shirt, and old, hand-me-down sneakers. He had a bright smile.

  “This be D’Shawn,” said Orange.

  “Hey,” said D’Shawn. “Who da white ladies?”

  “We’ve got someplace for you and your mama to live,” said Tori. “Get in, we’ll show you.” They hopped in. “D’Shawn, you know perfectly well the car won’t start if you don’t put on your seat belt.”

  He grinned. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. He plugged in his seat belt, and so did his mama, and they dropped them off at the apartment house. Rota went up to show them to their apartment.