In This Life

by Leo Sullivan

  She raised the needle up to the light. It cast an ominous shadow on the bed. As she faced him, the corners of her pudgy mouth formed what looked to be a smirk of some kind. She walked towards him and one of her chins bounced with each step she took. “I need for you to pull your gown up?” It sounded more like a command.

  “No!” Freddy rasped as he tried to ease his battered body away from her.

  “Don’t tell me a big ole gang--I mean fellow like you is scared of a little old needle?” She asked, staring down at his body like he was something sweet to eat. She tugged at the sheet and he pulled them back. She pulled again, and he pulled them back. She pulled again, this time he just let her have her way with him. He turned and exposed his behind to her. She wiped it in the area where she would inject him and then plunged the need in. He winced. She tried to suppress a grunt that would have sounded like a giggle to most people. He looked over his shoulder. Her thin lips formed a thin line of satisfaction. Her beady eyes smiled at him. He turned his head, rubbing the spot where she had just jabbed him. He heard her say, “That will teach you!”

  “Fat bitch!”

  “What did you say?” Nurse Weinberger snorted. She headed for the door. Freddy lay there and stared at the vacant bed next to him. He heard her feet shuffle out the room. Minutes later a morphine-induced euphoria swept over him, easing his pain along with his worries. That night the chimes of the machine with its animated lines, the murmur of the hospital and his palpitating heart beat were all in harmony with the soft breathing that escaped his now perfectly working lungs. Freddy Thugstin would live to see another day.

  ******

  A week later, Freddy was awakened by the cacophony of loud voices. “The patient is in no condition to talk.” Doctor Utumo was saying.

  “Listen buddy! What did you say your name was?”

  “Dr. Utumo!” The doctor said, as he struggled to sustain his professional decorum.

  “Okay Mo, we’re here investigating a homicide, which means, you’re obstructing justice. You interfere just one more time pal and I’ll run you down to the station so fast that your nose will bleed.”

  Dr. Utomo stood rigid, like he had just been doused with a bucket of ice cold water; his pulse now raging at the imbecile standing in front of him. “My name is U-to-mo, not Mo.” He spoke slow and deliberately through clinched teeth. “Sir, if you put your fucking hands on me I will break your fucking neck. Now, I am going to ask you, again, to leave if you do not have a warrant.”

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! A genial voice broke in. “We only need a minute with the kid,” the other cop said.

  “As I have already stated, the patient is in no condition to talk--”

  “Buddy you’re about to be arrested for having a big mouth.”

  “Listen,” the good cop cut in, “We only need one minute with the kid. Give us a minute. We don’t want to make this any more difficult than it has to be. Give us a minute,” he then nodded his head in the direction of his partner and gave a facial expression that said I just don’t know about him.

  As the doctor looked at both men, he suddenly felt his reserve diminish. All of the years of hard work and struggle invested in him by his family; all his life he had never taken any shit from a black man and he damn sure was not going to take any from a white man. Now that he was finally in America fulfilling his dreams, a practitioner of medicine, a healer of his people. He looked at the irate cop. The man was clearly on something, drugs or alcohol. He anxiously pounced from one foot to the other, like a football player about to tackle the quarterback, or a doctor? Silence was loud as the two men stared at each other. Somehow he felt like he was betraying the kid, but he realized that the last thing he needed was to come to America and have his family learn that he lost his license to practice because he got into a fisticuffs with two white cops over a runaway delinquent. Reluctantly, he stepped aside, “Five minutes!” He said as they walked past him.

  Freddy lie in bed listening to the whole conversation. Now he could hear their heels on the marble floor along with the rustle of their clothing. His heart beat in his chest so hard that he thought they might see it. Their quiet was disturbing as he fought the urge to open his eyes. Just like all cops, he could smell shoe polish and Bruit Cologne. He also felt them like the very perspiration that now gleamed on his forehead.

  The cop with the bad attitude smiled at his partner as he looked down at Freddy and the big oversize bandages that covered most of his body. The cop then took his stubby forefinger and thrust it into Freddy’s chest.

  “Hey, you!”

  “Ooouch!” Freddy shrilled loudly.

  “Wake up, Thugstin!”

  Enraged, Freddy stared into the eyes of the Devil himself, Detective John Fermen. His face was long and pointed, his blue eyes always seemed to be roaming and searching, his short, blonde military haircut was spiked and looked wet, and it stood straight up at the top. At six foot three and about two hundred and fifty pounds, he looked like a cross between a drill sergeant and a pro wrestler. His shit colored polyester suit was too small, and bunched up under his arms. Fermen looked as if he was clearly uncomfortable wearing it. He came from a long line of cops. His father had been a cop and his father’s father before him. In law enforcement he was autonomous; he made his own rules as he went along. He had been given so many citations for misconduct that if it was not for his white predecessors, that had established the silent fraternity of G.O.B.’s, he would be working at his uncle’s used car lot. But as of lately the G.O.B.’s (Good Ole Boys) were getting tired of his shit.

  His partner, Don Weiffenbach, even in his late forties still possessed that boyish charm and good looks that he used to manipulate situations in his favor. Yet, his first appearance gave the impression of power and prestige, punctuated by his always-immaculate dress. Today he wore a pinstriped, tailored made gray, double-breasted suit with a gray and burgundy tie that matched his burgundy Stacy Adams shoes. Together, the two successfully formed a team of good cop, bad cop, an honor that had earned them a lot of suspicious confessions, as well as convictions. Talking with Weiffenbach was easy and simple. Talking with Fermen was hazardous, brutal even.

  “Mr. Thugstin, aka Thug aka Fast Freddy, so we meet again, huh? Only this time you’re immobile. You can’t run from me now.”

  “What the hell did you hit me for man?” Freddy asked, eyes blazing with disdain as he rubbed his chest.

  “Trust me punk; that was not a hit.” Fermen said, as he rubbed his hands together and then began to crack his knuckles.

  “One day I’ll show you what a real hit feels like,” Fermen said.

  “Listen kid,” Weiffenbach instructed. “We are here to investigate a homicide.” He then took a step closer knowing the affect those words had, he wanted to get a better look at Freddy’s reaction. As he adjusted his tie, the diamond on his pinky finger sparkled. You may be able to help us, and yourself,” he said as he displayed a smile that looked like the fox that ate the chicken. “About two weeks ago, on April 10th, there was a fight. Do you know a young man by the name of Robert Line?” The name sent shock waves through Freddy’s brain.

  “You may have known him as Dirty Red?”

  Freddy was just lying there; his brain racing a mile a minute. He primed his lips with his tongue to speak, realizing that he was thirsty. “Nope, never heard of ’em.”

  Weiffenbach arched his brow, turned his head to one side, and looked at him in disbelief. Fermen whistled through his teeth.

  Weiffenbach continued, “Could you please tell us how you were so badly beaten only a few feet from the dead body of the victim and not see anything?” Weiffenbach then snapped his finger as if he had remembered something. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you--”

  “Am I being charged with a crime?” Freddy interrupted him. Weiffenbach then began picking imaginary lint off of his suit jacket.

  “It depends, if you cooperate with us and tell on yo
ur buddies, we’ll see what we can do for you, but first we need to know what happened so that we can help you.”

  Fermen seemed to be in his own world as usual. He was frisking the room with his eyes, as if the killer might have left something. He now eased the garbage can closer to him with the toe of his battered shoe.

  “What happened?” Weiffenbach asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern in his voice. He could have won a nomination for a Grammy.

  Freddy pursed his dry lips to speak. He looked over at Fermen; he had stopped his investigation of the trash can and was looking at him waiting for him to spill his guts.

  “Um…huh…okay…oh…this is what happened…” Freddy began. “I was walking along by myself…minding my own business and four white guys, mmmm, oh, jumped out of nowhere. One of them was wearing a sheet with a cone head and the big one with the wooden leg, he was the one with the knife.” Freddy gestured with his hands while making a face. Weiffenbach could not help it, he chuckled to himself, in an attempt to keep from laughing out loud. The kid was definitely lying and comically adlibbing as he went along. “It was just too many of them, uhmm….I think it was one of them racial hate crimes that--”

  “Shut your goddamn lying mouth, you piece of shit!” Fermen hollered to the top of his lungs. Spittle sprayed from his mouth and a big green vein protruded from his forehead. His too small suit appeared as if it was about to burst at the seams like the Incredible Hulk. Fermen was fuming mad. Congenially, Weiffenbach gestured with his hands like a rabbi trying to calm his parishioners. For some strange reason it worked. Fermen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started to pace, as if he just had to find a way to release some energy until he could get his hands on something breakable.

  “Listen, kid, we pretty much know what happened. In fact, we have a key eyewitness. Cooperate with us and I promise you you’ll get off easy.” The room became silent. Fermen stopped and turned to face Freddy. Weiffenbach continued, “We have a gun and as soon as the ballistics come back we will have a match. It may even have fingerprints on it.”

  Freddy’s realization was like snow melting on a mountaintop. The hard fact chilled him as he was lying there stolid, unemotional with his poker face as the two police stared down at him. Dirty Red was dead…then there was the matter of the gun. Damn! Mykle and Dee could not have slipped up like that and let the police get the gun. He now looked back and forth at the police, wondering just how much they were telling him was the truth.

  Now it was Weiffenbach’s turn to pace back and forth with his right hand in his pocket and the other cuffed under his chin as he did his best impression of Inspector Colombo contemplating the plot. He then suddenly stopped and spun doing a full pirouette on the heel of his shoes, “Okay!” As if incanting out loud, “We got one dead body, a gun, a very crucial eye witness, and a sixteen year old that was beaten to a pulp by four white men, one of them with a wooden leg and a knife.” Weiffenbach snickered at that. He then peered down at Freddy, his piercing aquamarine eyes open wide. “Son, what we have is an air tight case against you, all the ingredients for murder. Plus you have a warrant for your arrest in juvenile court. It seems that you have a problem living with your aunts and uncles. You have run away so many times that the courts have lost count.” His voice dropped a notch to almost a genial whisper. “I, along with my partner, want to help you. He then turned and nodded in the direction of his partner and instantly regretted it. Fermen had his top lip snarled up displaying teeth and gums in his disdain for Freddy.

  Weiffenbach said, “Why don’t you tell us what really happened and we’ll make sure you get a fair trial.”

  “Trial?” Freddy thought, as he looked back and forth at the detectives. They waited for him to say something. He could read their minds. The expected him to tell on his best friends and on himself. Just what he needed, to secure a seat in the electric chair and have all that money go to waste. He exhaled making that tub sound.

  “I swear to god that was what happened! You gotta believe me?”

  “Listen, dirt ball, what part of this don’t you understand? You’re in big trouble. Murder! You’re going down and not to one of them boy’s homes or to a kiddy town. You’ve graduated to the big league, State prison, Pontiac, and Statesville. Do you know what they do to young pretty boys like you? Do you?” From about five feet away Freddy could smell the man’s breath. He looked at Freddy as if he really expected him to answer. “Do you know what they do? They play hide the sausage.” He then stepped closer, his fetid breath now hot on the side of Freddy’s face. He smiled a scowl between pleasure and insanity. “They play hide the sausage right up your tight ass.” He slapped his thigh as he laughed at his own sick joke, the buttons on his shirt were threatening to give way. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “You better talk while you have the chance. I hear they have Tampax for men.” He then stepped back to see the affect of his police “Boo Game” diatribe. Freddy was clearly troubled. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat. A pigeon landed on the window seal and looked inside. The officers waited, Fermen began to punch the inside of his hand with his fist. This was getting good. The kid was squirming in the bed. Fermend thought, “Get them black boys alone and all of them act like scared bitches. They can’t take the heat.” He now watched Freddy closely.

  “Yeah, you’re right, I just did not know.” Feddy said solemnly. Both detectives nodded their heads.

  “This is serious…I…I just did not know. I am sorry…It must have been terrible for you. You know from firsthand experience about the abuse to your anus.”

  Fermen was nodding his head in agreement the whole time listening to the kid spill his guts, until it dawned on him what the smart aleck had just said, and he went berserk! “What the fuck did you just say? You black son-of-a-bitch!” The pigeon dived from the sky as Fermen lunged for Freddy, fully intent on strangling the shit out of him. Just in a nick of time, Weiffenbach grabbed him from behind in a bear hung. Freddy weakly threw up his fist in defense. In walked Nurse Jones along with Dr. Utomo. The scene was bedlam.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Dr. Utumo demanded. Nurse Jones dropped her clipboard and gasped, holding her hands to her mouth.

  Weiffenbach partially released his hold on Fermen, looking like a crook caught in the act.

  Freddy perked up and answered brightly, “Oh, ain’t nothing happening. The nice Detective Fermen was just showing me how he used to play hide the sausage.”

  Fermen went into spasms. His body started to shake and he turned red. The right side of his face twitched and flinched as if he was going to draw his gun. “You fuckin’ black ass nig --”

  The doctor and nurse looked on incredulously. Weiffenbach eased in between the two trying to nudge his infuriated partner out the door. In all their years together he had never seen him lose it like this. Fermen now shot daggers at everyone. He was like a wild animal that had just been deprived of its prey before the kill. A feral shadow creased his face as he hissed, “I am personally looking forward to seeing you again in a few days. I understand that you people like to wear a lot of jewelry. I’ll have some nice silver bracelets for both your wrists.”

  “Okay, Fermenda.” Freddy said mockingly in a girl’s voice. The nurse laughed out loud. Fermen bit his bottom lip in frustration as Weiffenbach shoved him towards the door. Intentionally Fermen bumped into the doctor as they exited.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Nurse Jones asked. Freddy shrugged, “A weak Abbott and Costello interrogation by two professional idiots.” The atmosphere returned to normal as the nurse’s jovial laughter broke the miasma that the two cops had left behind. She was a very attractive woman, with a pleasant oval face and high cheekbones that gave her an exotic appeal. The way her curvaceous body strained against the tightly clad material of the uniform gave proof to her being a full-bodied woman and very top heavy. She sashayed to the other side of the bed with enough bounce in her step to make a bulldog break his chain, as Fr
eddy’s dad would say. She now prepared to take off his bandages. “Let’s see how you’re healing today handsome.” She said with gaiety in her voice as her soft, well-manicured hands gently began to undress his gauze. The tape hurt as she pulled at it. He winced and finally it was off. Underneath lie the horror, the kiss of death’s calling, his chest was emaciated, with ugly staples and stitches. He looked like a dwarfed Frankenstein. His chest was pale, three shades lighter than the rest of his body, and the pain was still excruciating. He felt that if he coughed, his stitches would burst and his guts would spill all over the floor.

  The doctor rubbed his hand over the ugly scar. His latex gloves, white against Freddy’s dark skin, added to the gruesome scenes his thoughts were painting on the canvas of his young mind. He also sensed that, in some way, the doctor was admiring his work, the work of the scalpel, the fine stitch. It was the doctor’s signature. Satisfied, he smiled to himself. Nurse Jones strutted across the room to prepare his bath water as the doctor continued the examination.

  Freddy’s mind drifted as he ruminated over the events that had led him there. Dirty Red was dead. He could not believe it, and the cops had threatened him with their weak gambit to get him to talk. His mind staggered at the details and the effect they would have on him. The gun? He wondered why the hell Sasha had to go and get Mykle and Dee. More than likely that was the gun that Marilyn had given him. He prayed it wasn’t, but somehow he knew that it was. That would hurt him at trial, especially if it turned out that his prints were all over it. The only way out was to testify on his pals, and that was out of the question. He’d rather do his time alone than bring down his friends. After all, they were only trying to help him and had probably saved his life.