Fail

by Rick Skwiot

  “Then one day when it was hot as hell I went into the student union to get an iced tea. And there was one of my grammar students sitting by himself at a table with a small chessboard in front of him, working through some endgame puzzle from the newspaper—Alonzo Watkins.

  “He asked if I wanted to play. I told him it had been a while but I’d try. I was number one board on my high-school team and figured to teach him a thing or two. When he reached into his backpack, brought out a chess clock, and said, ‘Five minutes each,’ I sensed trouble.

  “I started with a Queen’s Gambit, which he quickly tore up. And Alonzo didn’t just move his pieces, he slam-dunked them. My flag fell, which saved me getting mated. I told him I was little rusty and suggested another match. He shrugged as if indifferent.

  “This time, as if to further humiliate me as he kicked my ass, he added play-by-play. ‘Teacher man go queen to h5, into the deep shit. Zo go BAM! and take the black bitch.’”

  Gabriel smiled. His dad had been ruthless at chess, always playing with a take-no-prisoners attitude.

  “Afterward I asked where he learned to play,” Stone continued. “You know what he told me?”

  “What?”

  “Barbershops in North St. Louis. Who would have thought? But why not? Why was that so surprising to me?”

  “’Cause you’re a white man,” Gabriel said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but….”

  Stone didn’t seem to get the humor and just kept on going. “Exactly. So I learned two lessons. First, I realized I had come to expect failure from Alonzo and students like him just because he was black and from North St. Louis. Second, I saw he was not a young man with diminished intellect. I saw that the problem wasn’t with him but with me and his other teachers. Still, I had no idea how to teach him and the others what they needed to know.

  “But soon, with some student intervention, we found a solution. We decided to go back to where the problem started—first grade—and launching from there. We all learned in that class. I hadn’t realized how really complex English grammar could be, the stuff we do more or less automatically every day.

  “But here’s the biggest lesson for us, Carlo: There are a million more Alonzos out there who have to be taught what every English-speaking kid in the world needs to know: the conventions of the language. They need to be able to communicate effectively in the public sphere and actuate themselves, to free themselves from the last lingering shackles of slavery. To deny them that opportunity is criminal.”

  “You’re seeing crime everywhere, Stone. But how about this? Some folks might say it’s criminal to rob them of their black dialect. That all you’re talking about is white patriarchy.”

  Stone waved it away. “They can talk however they want at home and on the street. I know third generation Americans who still speak Italian at home, but they know how to read, speak, and write Standard English.”

  “Yeah, but by whose standards?”

  “The consensus. The language of our textbooks, instruction manuals, legislation, and news reports. None of it’s written in black dialect or creole or Spanglish. As expressive as they might be, they’re not much use in acing job interviews, writing business contracts, or giving control-tower instructions. By whatever historical accident, effort, and ruthlessness, English rules. People from all over the world—and I’ve had students from all corners—understand that and learn the formal language. And when they do, they move to the head of the class, stepping right over our inner-city kids on the way.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you. But no one stepped over me. I came from ‘the ghetto,’ and there were a lot of decent families like mine, a lot of good people. Lots of my friends went to public school and fared all right.”

  “But that was forty, fifty years ago. The cultural circumstances have changed.”

  “You going to lecture me about that as well? Now you think you know everything about the ’hood? Just like the rest of the do-gooders and university types, you want to sit above it all and tell us what’s best for us.”

  Gabriel got up to take a piss. The bathroom window had been left half open and snow had accumulated on the sill. He could see the towering superstructure of the bridge spanning the Mississippi, which flowed gray and urgent beneath it. The view, as much as the cold air, chilled him, and he pushed the window closed.

  When he returned, Stone started in again. “Look, Carlo. I know there are still good families. People trying to do right by their kids and students hungry for an education. But through no fault of their own they aren’t getting it. Many know they’re getting shafted but don’t understand why. And maybe what I’m getting is all secondary research and hearsay, but a lot of it comes from the mouths and the hearts of my students. They’re the ones who’ve taught me. Which is why I’m leaving the ivory tower and getting down in the trenches. I can’t turn my back on these kids. And I don’t think you can either.”

  “Watch me. I’m no teacher, just a cop. My job is to find you—which I’ve done—and to see you don’t make waves. Which I think I can achieve by consigning your files to the Father of Waters.”

  “Don’t you feel anything for your people?”

  “Ah, the race card. Hardly a trump in my case. The world will go on its merry, corrupt way no matter what I do. I’m looking out for number one.”

  “So are the people you arrest.”

  “Up yours, professor.”

  Stone took a drink. “You ever read Invisible Man?”

  “Saw the movie.”

  “Not The Invisible Man. Ralph Ellison’s book. His advice was to go easy and keep on helping your people—but don’t go too fast or they will cut you down.”

  “You don’t know shit about being black. Or Mexican. Or poor.”

  “But Ralph Ellison did. And I can read what he had to say about it and share his experience. I can grow by it and profit by it. But those kids who are falling through the cracks can’t even do that. They can’t read it because they can’t read. Many of them are functionally illiterate and some can’t read beyond a fourth or fifth grade level. You can help fix that, Carlo, by helping me to expose the corruption and shine a light on these problems. Here’s a chance to do something principled and serve your people. Help me with this. Make a difference. Maybe you won’t get your rank back—”

  “No ‘maybe’ about it.”

  “But you’ll get something more important.”

  “Do tell, professor. What will I get?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Spell it out.”

  “Your self-respect.”

  Gabriel felt himself color, ears burning. He rose and poured more whiskey into his glass.

  “You don’t know shit about me, Stone. And you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “Educate me.”

  Gabriel drank. “I already told you that we need to know what’s really going on before we draw any conclusions. Before we know what to do. But here you are drawing conclusions and deciding what to do before we know anything at all.”

  “We know we have a chance to help these kids, and that’s the only thing that’s important right now.”

  “The only thing, huh? There’s one other thing you’re not taking into account. Something you should give careful consideration to, but from your martyred, self-righteous perch, you can’t even see.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe it’s just the suspicious cop in me, but I don’t think your wife killed herself.”

  Stone stared at him. “Explain.”

  Now it was Gabriel’s turn to pace. “First, her car was found in an out-of-the-way spot in Forest Park. A venue that’s off the beaten path, without a lot of through-traffic. A place where highly recognizable public figures might be able to have a private conversation without being spotted. And a dark place to commit murder without witnesses.

  “Second, the doors were unlocked. Nowadays doors lock automatically when you drive. Which suggests the possibility t
hat someone got into or out of the car after it was parked. Nonetheless, we get the case file editorializing that there’s no reason to suspect that the wound was anything other than self-inflicted. Also no mention of any footprints in the snow around the vehicle or lack of such, so bad detective work right there.

  “Third, who’s personally overseeing the investigation? Police Chief Donnewald himself. Highly irregular. And we know, if your research is on target, that he’s up to his eyeballs in nefarious dealings with the towing-company racket, which the mayor is winking at with pleasure.”

  “Why ‘with pleasure’?”

  “By getting involved in a kickback scheme under the mayor’s nose, Donnewald has handed Angelo Cira a personally engraved club that he can beat him with whenever Cira deems it advantageous. This could be one of those times. ‘You rat me out, I rat you out.’”

  “Fourth, Cira, as I know from personal experience, is not above murder when angered. And if your wife had cracked under the pressure or got cold feet or started feeling guilty and decided to come clean publicly, that would no doubt piss him off. The fact that he could be facing ruin and hard time might just be enough incentive for Cira to silence her permanently. And he would know how to do it clean as a whistle.”

  “You really think—”

  “Wait, I’m not done. Fifth and finally, if I’m right about points one, two, three, and four, you’re next.”

  Gabriel had finally gotten his attention. The professor brought his hands together as if in prayer and lifted them to pursed lips. Gabriel watched in silence as Stone sat there, unmoving for several moments. Finally, he looked up.

  “I want to ask you a question and want your honest reply. Can you do that for me?”

  Gabriel sipped from his glass then set it down. “What’s the question?”

  Stone took a deep breath. “If you can’t play St. Christopher and carry me safely to the other shore, will you become my Angel of Death?”

  - 24 -

  Snow blanketed everything and kept falling in a relentless swirl of fat flakes. They called out for another bottle and sat drinking as if there was nothing better to do.

  Stone, with his feet propped up on the bed, proposed a toast to his wife. “She deserved better.”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  “Not what I meant. Better than ending this way … gunshot … and….”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “The early days were best, when we were both struggling. Such high hopes. Now I can’t believe it’s all over, that it ended this way, that I’ll never … Sorry, I’m a bit maudlin.”

  “Sorry? Hell, you got every right to be more than a bit maudlin.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s in the blood. My people have wakes and share drinks with the deceased. You ever read Finnegan’s Wake? Me either. Tried. Couldn’t, despite my Irish blood.”

  “‘The name Stone sounds Jewish, but you’re clearly Catholic through and through.”

  “English and Irish and Scots. My ancestors changed it from McSomething or O’Whatsit.”

  “I can see you’re fascinated by family genealogy.”

  “A chump preoccupation. We all share ninety-nine point nine percent of our DNA and can all be traced back to a common ancestor in Africa two hundred thousand years ago.”

  “Soul brother!”

  “Best to distinguish oneself not by ancestry but accomplishment. Based largely on opportunity. What we’re all about—land of opportunity. Witness America’s ingenuity and success, the dregs of Europe, refugees, discards, and descendants of slaves end up leading the world in most every goddamn category.”

  “Every damn category ’cept education to hear Professor Jonathan Stone tell it.”

  “Still … something worth drinking to. And we’re gonna change that, right?”

  Gabriel raised his shot glass an inch. “Sure.”

  Stone appraised him. “How’d you ever make lieutenant?”

  Gabriel frowned. “What do mean how’d I make lieutenant? With talent and hard work, like the rest of your American dregs. What are you insinuating?”

  “An obvious solution to all your problems sitting right before you and you don’t recognize it.”

  “Finish your lecture, professor.”

  “Assuming Ellen was murdered, though not by Angelo Cira or his connections, you could win a gold star by apprehending the actual perpetrator, right?”

  “Unlikely assumption.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Possibly.”

  Stone spread his arms. “Here I am. I’m the one with the motive—betrayed husband—and the opportunity.”

  “She was shot in St. Louis, Missouri. You’re in Quincy, Illinois.”

  “Only two-and-a-half hours by car. I could have driven down yesterday, met with her, argued, pulled the gun that I knew was in her purse, and shot her sometime before dawn. I’d still have enough time to drive back here and make seven-thirty Mass. You even have evidence of my intent. I wrote that it would be easier and more gratifying to kill her than divorce her.”

  “But you’re forgetting one crucial thing, Stone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a wuss without the balls to shoot a Muscovy duck, much less your lawfully wedded wife. That is, unless you’re the world’s best actor who’s got a veteran cop completely buffaloed into thinking otherwise.”

  “I’m a lousy actor. My high school drama club never allowed me a speaking part. Too sincere. A failing in a society where everyone wears masks.”

  “Masks again. Which reminds me … in answer to your prior question.”

  “What prior question?”

  “Some time back. A minor detail: whether I was St. Christopher or the Angel of Death.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Yes’ what?”

  “Yes, I was sent to kill you.”

  “And I thought your job was to enforce the law. Anyway, I know you’re not serious.”

  “Not direct orders. Everyone’d be satisfied if you just went away peaceably and quietly.”

  “Unlike Ellen.”

  “That’s what we’d prefer.”

  “Antecedent?”

  “Huh?”

  “For the pronoun ‘we’.”

  “Me and you. You and I.”

  “I already told you ‘not quietly.’”

  “Screw you, Stone. Should be easy at this point. You’re making it hard.”

  “Then throw the damn flash drives in the river. Throw me in the river. Don’t worry about doing the right thing, do the easy thing, and see how easy it is to live with that.”

  Gabriel stood and moved to the window overlooking the street. Dusk. Still snowing—maybe a half-foot or more. All was silent. He remembered as a child how quiet it was on snowy mornings. He could tell, even before he ran to the window to look out at the street, that it had snowed and softened everything.

  “Let’s think about this. Let’s say I was to help you—”

  “I knew you would.”

  “Not saying I am. But if I did, I’d have to come out of this clean and you’d have to come out alive. So the first thing I’d have to know is whether your wife killed herself or had help pulling the trigger.” Gabriel turned. “That might take some time, if I can do it at all. In the meantime I’d have to keep you on ice.”

  “Figuratively speaking, I trust.”

  “Figuratively speaking.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m thinking. Thinking how to get what I want out of this.”

  “So much for altruism.”

  “To hell with altruism. So-called ‘good’ acts always make the actor feel good, but what about everyone else?”

  “Saint Thomas Aquinas tells us to seek the common good as more desirable than the individual good.”

  “I’m figuring on getting both.”

  “And so much for principled action.”

  “I’m going rise above principle.”

&n
bsp; “This I’ve got to see.”

  “No, I mean it, Jonathan. I think I can pull this off and get you more than you bargained for.”

  “How so?”

  “If I can figure some way to land the big fish, I’d come out smelling like a rose and you’d be right with St. Thomas.”

  “Mixed metaphor. And clichéd.”

  “But you need to trust me.”

  “Trust you how?”

  “With your life.”

  “Which means?”

  “I want to use you as bait.”

  Stone stared at him and finally nodded. “That’s better: fishing, bait. Much better grammatically. But I still don’t like the sound of it.”

  - 25 -

  Mayor Angelo Cira lived on Westmoreland Place, a gated street near the northeast corner of Forest Park lined with venerable mansions built when St. Louis was still America’s fourth-largest city behind New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia. His home sat just a mile or two down Kingshighway Boulevard from the Hill—formerly Dago Hill—where Cira grew up in a shotgun bungalow. Gabriel pulled his Dodge to the curb in front of the three-story Italianate structure.

  In the front yard a snowman with stick arms and stocking cap sat in front of spotlights that illuminated the home’s marble façade against the black night. An electric candle glowed in each window. Gabriel rang the doorbell.

  Cira himself soon appeared dressed in a charcoal cardigan and carrying the Wall Street Journal. As they shook hands Cira’s wife came from the living room to the right, where stood an enormous Christmas tree with white lights. She pressed her cheek to Gabriel’s.

  “It’s been a long time, Marie.”

  “Too long. Years, Carlo. You’re still handsome.”

  “And you haven’t changed a bit.” She was a plain woman, late forties, hair dyed black. “The kids—how old are they now?”