by Robert Greer
“Pretty much. Somebody out there might need that one mundane-looking seashell you’ve got to complete their collection. And if you’ve got the goods, you’re the car’s driver.”
“Hate to ask, Harry, but you weren’t in on Wiley and Chin’s seashell-fencing scam, were you?” CJ asked.
Harry cackled. “Here’s my straight-up answer for you: no way I’d involve myself in some dumbass fencing scam. And here’s a little more smoke for your investigative pipe. I’ll use that poster you’re looking at as a hopefully instructive example, even thought it could cost me. There’s not much flow of those kinds of posters around the pawnshop circuit anymore, so you might think, given its rarity, that the poster would fetch a quick top dollar. Problem is, the demand’s not there. Selling something like that requires zeroing in on a specialist. A buyer like you, for instance, who’s heavy into Western memorabilia. It wouldn’t matter if I had a thousand posters like that, mint condition to the hilt, if I couldn’t find myself a specialist. I’d be dead in the water.”
CJ stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So maybe when it comes to the killings, in addition to not appreciating the killer’s need for the mundane, in order to complete a collection, for example, I’ve also been looking at things from the perspective of a specialist for too long.”
“It’s what I’m saying,” Steed said with a grin. “Maybe you should start looking for a high-volume seller like Marquee and forget about your specialists and hoarders.”
“But what if Cheryl and Marquee teamed up and took over handling the sale of her uncle’s stolen seashells? Then they would’ve scored a double whammy: high-volume seller meets specialist supplier. Frankenstein meets the Werewolf, more or less.”
“It’s an idea. Especially since, as a rule, buyers don’t generally care who the hell they buy from. Cheryl steps in to take the place of her uncle, Marquee steps in to replace Chin, and bingo, even with Wiley gone, you’ve maintained yourself a nice little profit center. One that’s run by a couple of new faces but that can keep on running for as long as the supply of goods lasts.”
“Tidy little cottage industry. But why kill my guy Petey?”
“Beats me,” said Steed. “Maybe your guy got closer to them than he should’ve.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said CJ, clearly not convinced. “Looks like now all I’ve got to do is find Marquee.”
“Better you than me,” said Harry, glancing up at the World War I poster. “Special for the day, 15 percent off the two hundred.”
CJ couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s persistence. “Like I said earlier, I’ll have to think about it.”
“Okay. But tomorrow the price goes back up to two hundred.”
“Not even your original 10 percent discount?”
“Not even,” Harry said with a smile. “I’m a seller, not a hoarder, my friend.”
“So what you’re counting on is that there’s another specialist hoarder type like me out there somewhere,” CJ said, turning to leave.
“You’ve got it,” Harry said with a wink.
CJ found himself chuckling as he left, thinking that skinflint or not, Harry Steed was definitely one of a kind.
CJ stopped by Denver General Hospital a little before 10 a.m. to check on Ike. Feisty, looking fully recovered from his ordeal the previous evening, and sounding like an inmate planning a prison break, Ike bombarded him with a single question the instant CJ walked in: “When the hell do I get outa here?” His weak attempt to mask his shortness of breath with a thoughtful, deep-inhaling pause couldn’t hide the fact that the onetime Golden Gloves champion was facing a formidable foe.
“You get out after they do your biopsy and run some tests,” said CJ, trying not to think about the diagnostic preview he’d had the previous evening.
“Fuckin’ medical bureaucracy gone amuck, if you ask me. I’m feelin’ fine.” His grayish skin cast and hollow cheek’s spoke otherwise. “One good thing, though—I know there’s at least one good doctor on the staff. Henry Bales has been in here to check on me twice already this morning.”
Relieved, CJ said, “Good.”
Wheezing and looking as if he desperately needed to cough but couldn’t, Ike sat farther up in bed. “Where you headed from here?”
“To take Mavis to the airport.”
“She’s headed back to Boston already? Shit. She wasn’t here no time.”
“Just a week.”
“The two of you still hittin’ it off okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s one hell of an unenthusiastic yes, boy.”
“We’re doing fine, Unc.”
“So was Custer ’til he saw all them Indians headed his way. You wanna tell me the truth?”
CJ took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure Mavis and me are cut out for the long run.”
“What the shit are you talkin’ about? The girl’s been stuck on you, and Lord, don’t ask me why, since she was a kid. You oughta be dancin’ a jig and thankin’ your lucky stars over the fact.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. You yearn for something long enough and in the end you find out it’s not at all what you imagined. Or maybe you fantasize about hooking up with someone beautiful and cultured and classy only to realize that when all’s said and done, you’re reading through the same old princess-and-toad story.”
“You been drinkin’, CJ?”
“Come on, Unc.”
“Well, you sure as hell sound like it.” Ike coughed up a bloody string of phlegm into a tissue before gulping a couple of mouthfuls of air. “Let me clue you in on somethin’. Some-thin’ it looks like you damn sure ain’t come to realize yet. There’re things that don’t come around but once in life. Things you need to grab ahold of for dear life before they pass you by as quick as a goddamn missile.” There was sad insightfulness in Ike’s tone. “I’ve been there. I know. I shoulda latched on to Marguerite, gave her babies, and strutted her around town like she was a goddess a long time ago. But I didn’t, and damn it, she wouldn’t let me. Said I’d be a laughin’ stock if I married a former prostitute, and fool that I was, I listened to her. Now I’m here in this hospital bed sufferin’ from some-thin’ that more than likely’ll take me out, starin’ at a shitpot full’a wouldas and shouldas. Don’t make the same mistake as me, CJ. Nail down your future while you got the chance. You hear me?”
CJ nodded but said nothing.
“Good.” Ike leaned forward in bed and took a deep, preparatory breath, but before he could say anything else, Marguerite walked into the room with a vase full of spring flowers in her hands.
Noting the intensely instructive look on Ike’s face, she eyed CJ, who was looking at his watch, and asked, “Is he layin’ it on thick again?”
“As thick as I can,” Ike responded as, shaking her head, Marguerite set the flowers on a bedside table and kissed him on the cheek.
When she turned to give CJ a hug, he embraced her briefly and said, “I’ve got to run. I need to get Mavis to the airport by eleven-thirty.”
“Then you better get going. I’ll handle Dear Abby here,” she said, playfully rubbing the blossoming bald spot on Ike’s head.
“You take my words to heart,” Ike said, exchanging a high five with CJ as he headed for the exit.
“I will.” He was out of the room and halfway down the hall when Marguerite, who’d seated herself on the bed next to Ike and clasped his hands tightly in hers, said, “What were you pontificating about to CJ this time, Isaac?”
Looking at the woman he’d been in love with for twenty-five years squarely in the eye, Ike took a truncated breath and wheezed, “I was tellin’ the boy about love and how when he finds it he needs to grab ahold of it for dear life. Just hopin’ he listened.”
For most of the short ride from Mavis’s house to Denver’s Stapleton Airport, CJ and Mavis remained silent. Mavis, who was fidgeting with the latch on her purse for most of the way, finally spoke up when CJ turned off Thirty-second Avenue onto airport property. “
Holding things in won’t help, CJ. And neither will shutting people out. You and Ike are going to need the support of every one of your friends to get through this. Please know that you can count on me and Daddy.”
CJ nodded, aware that although Willis Sundee would be there for Ike to lean on, as would Rosie and Etta Lee, Henry Bales, and Vernon Lowe, Mavis would be back in Boston in a different world. A distant all-white world, for the most part, whose inhabitants would eventually become doctors and lawyers, politicians and intellectuals.
He pulled the Bel Air to a stop in front of the United Airlines departure gates, and as Mavis, dressed in calf-high leather boots and an elegant pleated Western skirt, got out, he couldn’t help but revel in her distinctly refreshing, sophisticated beauty. She was the kind of woman who could be comfortable anywhere—unflappable, affable, and worldly. It wasn’t until she reached up to pat her curly, windblown hair into place that she realized CJ was standing next to her staring.
Planting a soft, lingering kiss on his lips, she said, “I’m hoping you’re liking what you’re seeing, Mr. Floyd.”
“That I am.”
“Think about me while I’m gone, okay?”
“Okay. Sure you don’t want me to walk you to the gate? I can still go back and park the car.”
“Yes, I’m sure. You need to be with Ike.”
“Try not to forget about us common folks back here in Denver.”
“I never forget about home, CJ. Or where I’ve come from,” she added, snapping the handle of her carry-on into place.
Wishing he could eat his words, CJ gave her a final kiss on the cheek. “Call me when you get there, okay?”
“Yes,” she said, returning the kiss and heading for the terminal.
As he watched Mavis walk toward a set of revolving doors, her hair blowing casually in the wind, CJ found himself thinking about the haunting lyrics to a West Side Story song. The words Stick with your own kind threaded their way through his head as he slipped back behind the wheel of the Bel Air and headed for the office, knowing that DeeAnn would certainly be there by now.
Chapter 24
All the way home from the airport CJ found himself comparing DeeAnn and Mavis, confused as to exactly why the strange game of comparison had started, suspecting that maybe it was simply a protective mechanism to help him keep his mind off Ike.
Telling himself there was no way he could possibly compare someone he’d known all his life with someone he’d known so briefly, he slipped up the fire escape to his apartment and took the phone off the hook, hoping DeeAnn wouldn’t realize he was back. But he’d been home less than five minutes when DeeAnn knocked on his kitchen door. Looking guilty as CJ swung the door open, she said apologetically, “I know you don’t like people surprising you, but your phone’s been busy. And you’ve got a phone call downstairs that sounds pretty urgent.”
“From who?”
“The mother of that friend of yours who was killed, Petey Greene.”
“Oh,” he said, realizing that with all the other things on his mind, he’d forgotten about Petey.
“She’s holding on the line.”
CJ adjusted his vest and hitched up his pants as if such adjustments to his apparel were mandatory before he could talk to his former third grade teacher, Syrathia Greene. “I better go talk to her, then.”
As DeeAnn pivoted to head back down the fire-escape stairs, he couldn’t help comparing her with Mavis again. He’d watched Mavis walk down stairs before as well, and no matter the circumstances, she always moved with a fluid grace. In stark contrast, DeeAnn’s descent was purely and absolutely meant to be sensual. The way she took each step, rotating her hips ever so suggestively before she planted her foot on the next step down, screamed, I’m here for the taking.
When she reached the bottom and glanced back up to see CJ standing halfway down the stairs, looking reflective, she said, “Hurry up, CJ! The lady sounded terribly distraught.”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” said CJ, surprising himself with how quickly he finished taking the stairs before a new set of comparisons could began tracking their way through his head.
Syrathia Greene’s voice was hoarse from the mouth breathing that accompanies hours of crying. Unaware that Petey had been doing surveillance work for CJ or that the assignment might have cost her son his life, she responded to CJ’s half-guilty “Hello” with a series of sobs. “Oh, CJ, why couldn’t Petey have been more like you or Rosie? I feel so bad. I’m the one who made him the way he was. Overmothering him like I did, turning him into nothing more than a common hustler.”
“Petey was a good person and a grown man, Mrs. G. No need to beat yourself up. I’m sorry you’re the one calling me. I should’ve called you, but I’ve been busy with Ike. He’s been pretty sick.”
“I’m so sorry. How’s he doing?”
“He’s at Denver General, and they’re running some tests,” said CJ, minimizing the seriousness of the situation.
“My goodness. Please give him my best,” she said before returning to her dead son’s failings. “Petey looked up to you, CJ. You being a war hero and all. Maybe a stint in the navy would’ve helped straighten him out.” She burst briefly into tears. Composing herself but still sniffling, she said, “Anyway, the real reason I’m calling is because Petey left something here for you at the house. A legal-sized envelope with your name printed on the outside. The printing runs downhill. I never could get that boy to print in a straight line. He told me the evening before he was killed that the envelope contains photos of a bunch of antiques you wanted. I figured I should let you know it’s here.”
CJ thought, What antiques? then quickly realized that what Petey had more than likely left with his mother were actually his surveillance photos of Gaylord Marquee. “Oh, yes,” he said, hoping he sounded earnest.
“I can drop them by your office if you’d like.”
“No, no. I’ll come by and pick them up. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”
“That’ll be great. I’ve had a string of people in here all morning, but most of them have been my friends, not Petey’s. It would be wonderful if you could bring Roosevelt along, too. I can still see you, Petey, and Roosevelt sitting less than attentively in my third grade class throwing spitballs at one another.” She broke down again.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Mrs. G., and I’ll have Rosie with me.”
“Thank you, baby. It’ll give me so much comfort to see you two boys.” Syrathia Greene’s voice trailed off as, muttering through her tears, she said, “If only Petey could’ve been more like the two of you,” and hung up.
CJ caught up with Rosie Weeks ten minutes later after checking to make certain that Mavis’s flight had left on time. In the midst of changing the oil on a high-performance Dodge dually, Rosie had three more oil changes waiting. When CJ told him that Syrathia Greene had asked to see him, Rosie, aware that any differences he’d ever had with Petey were forever behind them now, quickly agreed to go.
A few minutes later they were in Syrathia Greene’s house, seated in her living room, exchanging small talk, laughing occasionally but more frequently fighting back tears. It was only when Syrathia handed CJ the envelope that Petey had left with her that the look on her face turned quizzical. “I’m not sure why Petey left those photos with me. It’s almost as if he knew he wasn’t going to be able to deliver them personally. Sort of strange, don’t you think, CJ?”
“Just a coincidence.” CJ glanced at Rosie, looking for backup that didn’t come.
“Petey was all I had,” Syrathia said, choking back tears. “Now I have nothing.”
“Yes, you do, Mrs. G.,” said CJ. “You’ve got the whole Five Points community to lean on, and you’ve still got me and Rosie.”
Smiling at CJ’s attempt to comfort her, the gray-haired, spindly-legged woman who’d taught the two grown men seated across from her their multiplication tables, looked up and said, “I do at that, don’t I?”
The room fell silent long
enough for CJ to appreciate the sound of Rosie’s heavy breathing. Suspecting that he and Rosie would likely remain there with the grieving schoolteacher for quite some time, he was busy contemplating what to say next when the doorbell rang.
“More company?” Syrathia rose and walked unsteadily across the room to the front door to find Willis Sundee standing in the doorway holding a cake tin. Her voice rose a full, delighted octave as she swung the door open and said, “Willis, please come in.”
Willis stepped inside to see CJ and Rosie walking toward him. “Rosie, CJ,” he said before giving Syrathia a sympathetic peck on the cheek and squeezing both her hands affectionately in his. “I’m so sorry about Petey, Syrathia. So terribly sorry.”
Syrathia’s eyes welled up with tears as CJ and Rosie greeted Willis with a couple of pats each on opposite shoulders. “Did you get Mavis off all right?” Willis asked, placing the cake on a nearby table.
“On the button,” said CJ, “and I checked to make sure her flight left on time when I got back to the office.”
“Great. I’m sure she’s missing both you and the Mile High City already.”
CJ smiled and said nothing. Thinking suddenly about comparisons, he felt rescued when, as he and Rosie gave Syrathia parting hugs, Rosie said, “Etta Lee said she’ll be comin’ by to see you this afternoon.”
“She’s an angel,” said Syrathia, waving Willis toward the living room as CJ and Rosie stepped outside. As she watched her two former students walk away down the sidewalk, quietly discussing what might be in the envelope, she couldn’t help but think once again that Petey should’ve been more like them.
CJ and Rosie didn’t say much to one another on the short ride back to Rosie’s place. It was almost as if Petey’s death demanded one long lingering moment of silence.
When CJ pulled the Bel Air to a stop in front of one of the garage’s service bays, the envelope Syrathia had given him slipped off the dashboard and onto his lap. “Might as well take a look at what’s inside right now,” he said, tearing an edge of the well-sealed envelope open.