In This Life

by Leo Sullivan

  “I have my concerns about bringing her into this,” the doctor said.

  “Me too… But what else is there to do?”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at three.” The doctor gave him his address and before hanging up, repeated, “I think I’ve gotten to the bottom of all of this.”

  Freddy hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. “It’s over,” he said to himself.

  Sasha curled herself around him. “Who was that?” she asked curiously.

  “Doctor Utomo… He thinks he may have figured out what’s up. He wants to go to the Feds, but I have a better idea… Take the money and run. We’ll go to Africa, maybe Egypt, and you can have the baby there. They want to give me two-hundred grand for the jewels.”

  “Did you tell him we’d take it?”

  “No.” Freddy made a face at her. Dumb question. “We’re gonna meet Utomo at his place at three this afternoon.”

  “Fre-deee,” she whined, “you never showed me the jewelry. I wanna see it!”

  “I have it hidden where no one can find it.”

  After a moments thought, she asked, “If you go to the Feds with what you have on the Senator, will they still charge you with Dirty Red’s murder?”

  With that statement, she opened a Pandora’s Box of problems that he had somehow forgotten, or his mind had blocked out. The demented face of Mark Fermen flashed across his mind.

  “I don’t want to have my baby while you’re in jail. My daddy already hates your guts.”

  “Hates me!?” Freddy retorted.

  “Yep,” she nodded at him, adding, “Fre-deee, I want to stay here ‘till we have the baby.”

  “Okay, okay, okaaaay!” he said, just to shut her fucking mouth. She was starting to get on his nerves with her fat ass always whining. With elbows on knees and head hanging, Freddy ran his fingers through his nappy hair, and for a fleeting moment, he heard the avaricious voice of betrayal, the voice that has often convinced good men to go bad, its whisper inviting, enticing him to: “Run! Run from your responsibilities, from fatherhood, fuck her, fat over weight bitch!” Slowly he turned to face hre, raising his head to survey the room. She had shit cluttered everywhere, all kinds of paraphernalia, nail polish, expensive perfumes, lotions.

  Then he took a good look at her. She looked pathetic with her hair askew, standing up as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket. Shapeless and unattractive, her breasts hung like they were made to feed a heard of calves.

  She scratched her swollen belly and yawned. “Freddy, why you staring at me like that?” she asked, unconsciously brushing her hair with her hand.

  “You… you look beautiful,” he lied. She smiled with dried saliva crusted in the corner of her mouth. “Leave her a thousand dollars and haul ass outta here in the car. Run, before it’s too late!” the little voice whispered, the voice that no woman would ever hear… the voice that summons a man’s soul, seizing his heart, making him abandon his most prized possession: his beloved family.

  He held his head in his hands and began making noises like a wounded animal. Thrashing his head back and forth in an effort to dislodge the demons, he suddenly grabbed Sasha and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if that might keep the demons at bay.

  They made love for a full ten minutes.

  Spent, he rolled off her, breathing like he had just finished running a marathon. “Did you get one?” he asked, proud of his love making skills.

  “Get one what?” Sasha asked in irritation, but determined not to hurt his fragile male ego. “Freddy, you make love like you’re chasin’ a bus or somethin’.”

  Disbelief registered on his face, as if she had just told him he was not man enough. “Let’s go again!” he challenged.

  “Boy, I ain’t gonna let you keep pokin’ that elephant thang in me… You might hit my baby and give him a black eye or something’.” She giggled getting up from the bed.

  He tried to grab her, but she was too quick. Heading for the shower, she added, “Marathon Man, that’s your last taste of coochie before we get married.”

  He chased her to the bathroom.

  ******

  They left the 95th Street Mall, where Sasha had displayed a marked affinity for baby clothes, spending nearly a thousand dollars in just one store. They arrived on schedule at the doctor’s residence, a modest two-story brick home in an affluent, predominantly black neighborhood of Chicago’s South Side.

  Sasha eased the convertible behind a black Volvo with a bumper sticker that read, “If you can read this, YOU’RE TOO DAMN CLOSE!” She pulled down the visor and used the mirror to put on some lip-gloss.

  Freddy double-checked the address to make sure they had the right one. They then exited the car. Sasha scrambled out behind him. As they walked up the front steps, the Bob Marley melody, "No Woman, No Cry" could be heard coming from inside the house. A faint whiff of jasmine incense found their noses as they turned and looked t each other, thinking the same thing. The old dude was more laid back than they had given him credit for.

  They waited… but there was no answer.

  Freddy tried the doorknob and the door swung open. Sasha gave him a forbidding shake of her head. He heard the doctor’s voice somewhere in the back of the house. The music was louder, the incense stronger. The glass around the frame of the door vibrated.

  Freddy stepped inside and looked over his shoulder. Sasha made a face that said, “I ain’t goin’ in there.” He took another tentative step and then smiled to himself when he heard a woman’s laughter. Freddy imagined the doc chillin’, burning a fat one with a fine honey. He walked through a living room decorated in shades of pastel, not overly expensive, but far from being cheap--a bachelor’s crib.

  Freddy proceeded down the long hallway toward the music. He could see Dr. Utomo sitting at the head of what appeared to be a dining table. As he entered the room, he noticed that the television was blaring as loudly as the stereo. That’s strange, he thought.

  The window shades were drawn and in the dim light, Freddy could see a slight smile on the doctor’s lips, his head turned partly away. He was stoned, Freddy thought, as he said, “Doc, didn’t you hear me at the door?” The doctor continued to stare vacantly. Freddy walked right up to him. “Busted! Doc, you been smokin’ that good African ganja, huh? He said, playfully nudging the doctor on the shoulder.

  The body keeled over face first onto the table. A long and blooded stiletto protruded from Utomo’s back. Freddy panicked, stumbling back over a chair. “Oh, shit!” he shouted.

  His mind race, “Think! Think,” he told himself. “Take the knife out…No! No, you fool, you’ll leave fingerprints.” Hesitantly, he touched the doctor’s neck. It wasn’t cold, but it damn sure wasn’t alive either. “Oh, shit, the killer’s still here,” he thought.

  He had taken several steps back from the body when someone grabbed him from behind. He hollered and they screamed. He spun free with his fist balled tightly, ready to knock the hell out of his assailant. It was Sasha.

  He grabbed her and shoved her out the door before she could see the body. She complained as he pulled her by the hand down the hallway, out the front door, all the way to the car. He shoved her into the driver’s seat, climbed in himself and shouted for her to go. Sasha was no fool and didn’t question the urgency in his face. After fumbling with the keys for an endless moment, she started the car.

  “Hold it!” Freddy shrieked, face creased with desperation. He looked frantically around the car. “Give me a napkin.”

  “What?” she asked.

  Freddy grabbed a baby’s bib out of one of the shopping bags and raced back into the house.

  Sasha watched him with mouth agape, car idling.

  Moments later he ran out of the house like it was on fire. He closed the front door and wiped the knob with the bib before running back to the car. “Go!” he shouted as he jumped in. She drove, he cursed.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked

  “Nothing,” he lied.<
br />
  Sasha smacked her lips and threw her neck back at his lie. “You almost knocked me down back there, and then you’re wiping the doorknob. Where was the doctor”

  “He was busy.”

  She made a face at him. “Doing what?”

  “Damnit, girl! Don’t be asking me all them questions,” he said, slamming his fist down on the dashboard. Radio station WGCI was playing the Marvin Gaye song, “What’s Goin’ On.” Freddy was lost in his thoughts, and it seemed the music was talking to him directly. He glanced over at Sasha as she drove with the seatbelt loosened across her distended belly. “Shit!” he cursed. The doctor was dead. His guilt was overwhelming as the doctor’s words echoed in his mind, “You trying’ to get me killed?”

  “Shit!” he said again. Sasha cut her eyes at him, but he pretended not to notice, looking straight ahead at the road. The traffic was heavy. His mind was besieged by all kinds of grim thoughts… Now that the Senator, or someone, had killed the doctor and had gotten all the pictures and documents, what would they do next, kill him too?

  He looked over at Sasha. “Shit!” He prayed the jewels would be enough to bargain with. For now, he would just have to keep the doctor’s death a secret. One thing was sure, he needed a gun. It was time to go to war.

  “Turn off at the next exit,” he said. “I need to see a man about a dog.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Twin Towers housed the New York headquarters for ABC News. In a plush office on the eighteenth floor, a nasal voice answered the phone. “Good morning, EyeWitness News. May I help you?”

  Geraldo Rivera’s office was sound-proof, bullet-proof, and through a wall externally mirrored one-way glass, Geraldo could see the entire newsroom floor from the comfort of his lavish surroundings. The reporters’ desks occupied cubicles set in a labyrinthine pattern and on any given day and at nearly any hour, the activity was reminiscent of the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange.

  His telephone chimed with a green light. He answered it with the enthusiasm of someone just interrupted from watching paint dry. “Hello, this is Geraldo. What can I do for you?”

  “Geraldo, it’s me again,” a muffled voice whispered.

  The ace reporter bolts upright, both hands clutching the phone. “Hello, mister…missus…errr?” he blundered in his excitement.

  “What did your people say about the money? The voice asked, cutting straight to the case.

  “I think we may be able to do something,” Geraldo hesitated as he reached for the button to turn on the recorder. “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “How did you know that Senator Williams was going to run for President? And that great story linking that lady in the asylum to him…Mrs. Thugstin…”

  The silence of the anonymous voice was deafening.

  Rivera loosened his tie, his hands beginning to sweat. He had learned over the years that this was a good sign. The voice chuckled. Whether a man or a woman, Geraldo could not discern.

  “There’s more, lot’s more. That woman, Mrs. Thugstin, she is innocent. She didn’t kill her husband, she was framed. And you’re going to get her out of there.”

  “I am?”

  “And then you’re going to wait until after the elections before you break the story…”

  “That’s ridiculous,” the reporter bellowed.

  “Is it? If the Senator is elected, and it is likely that he will be,” the voice reasoned, “then you, Geraldo Rivera, will scoop the biggest scandal in history.”

  Geraldo had to admit that it was a brilliant idea as he envisioned himself winning the prestigious World Laureate Award for outstanding journalism. Not to mention all the money… the book… a movie… Dan Rather at CBS could kiss his ass!

  “I have a photo for you. It will validate my credibility. You will receive it today in the mail. I need a down payment.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Is it a deal or what?” The voice’s threat faded into a momentary silence.

  “Deal. But I want to see the photo first.”

  “Mr. Rivera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brenda is a beautiful little girl, and so is her mother.”

  The phone went dead and Gerald sat stunned and suddenly cold with fear. Brenda was his nine-year old daughter, who was enrolled at a very exclusive and very private boarding school in another state.

  ******

  Detective Mark Fermen and his partner Jon Weiffenbach exited the unmarked police car. Throngs of gawkers were already standing behind the yellow taped crime barrier surrounding the house. A plain-clothes officer approached just as Weiffenbach and Fermen stepped under the tape, and the three walked briskly to the entrance.

  The plain-clothes licked his stubby thumb and turned the pages of a small notepad. “Victim is single, black, age fifty-nine, name Mutulu Utomo, occupation, doctor--” The detectives glanced at each other knowingly. “--no evidence of forced entry, no sign of struggle. The victim may have known his assailant.”

  They entered the house. “The coroner estimated the time since death as ten to fifteen hours based on body temp and degree of lividity and rigor mortis. He said he’d have a more precise time of death after the autopsy.”

  “Any sign of robbery?” Weiffenbach asked.

  “Not that we’ve found yet.”

  An elderly black lady was sitting on a couch in the living room, crying as a uniformed officer questioned her.

  “She found the body,” the plain-clothes officer said, nodding at her as they passed by. “She comes in once a week to clean. She said the door was unlocked when she arrived.”

  “Run a record check on her and do a background on her employers,” Fermen said.

  “Standing over the corpse, both detectives shook their heads in resignation and the plain-clothes asked, “You guys know him?”

  “Met him on a few occasions,” Weiffenbach answered stoically. “He worked at Providence Hospital.”

  A long stiletto protruded from the back of the doctor. The forensic people hovered around the body, collecting hair and fiber samples.

  The Medical Examiner approached with a perpetual smile glued to his sharp features. A fringe of gray hair around a baldpate and the slight potbelly of middle age did little to belie the impression that the dark, unblinking obsidian eyes had seen their share of death and their owner enjoyed his work. He bent over the body.

  “What can you tell us?” Fermen asked.

  The coroner looked at him, scratching his head. “The murder weapon is very sharp and is commonly used by professional assassins. The blow was inflicted swiftly and forcefully, penetrating several layers of muscles before it punctured the heart. While I cannot officially give you the cause of death until after the autopsy, I can say that he died very quickly.”

  “Why do you say that?” Weiffenbach asked, leaning over the body and studying the knife.

  The doctor sighed as if having had to explain this too many times before. “Because of the lack of exsanguination. When the heart stops beating, the blood quits circulating and death comes immediately. Therefore, very little blood drains from the body. Whoever did this was either very lucky, or knew what they were doing.”

  They watched as the pathologist placed clear plastic bags around the victim’s hands to preserve any evidence that might be under the fingernails. “Doc, will you let us know as soon as you come up with your findings?” Weiffenbach asked, as he reached into his pocket for a notepad.

  Fermen just rubbed his stubbly chin in contemplation, his mind on Freddy Thugstin. Where in the hell could that boy be?

  ******

  For the last month or so, they had spoken no more than a few words. The apartment had become a sort of war zone that could no longer abide the innocence and intimacy of young love. Ever since they had left so abruptly from Dr. Utomo’s house, Freddy had become temperamental, disgruntle and impossible to get along
with. Sasha had changed as well, feeling utterly helpless and full of despair.

  The apartment smelled of the stale remnants of bygone love. The living room was a pig sty that served as Freddy’s quarters. He had long since been barred from the bedroom. He had blockade the front door with the couch and the front room windows served as his observation post, nothing outside moving without him seeing it. His once handsome face was drawn with fatigue, the bags under his brown eyes an indication of his insomnia. His paranoia would not allow him to sleep.

  An ancient .45 caliber pistol, rusty as World War I, rested on the couch beside him. On the day he had discovered the doctor’s body, he had purchased it from a junkie named Paradise. Freddy had still not told Sasha of the doctor’s murder.

  Over the past several weeks, they had forayed out of the apartment on only a few occasions--to shop for food and attend Sasha’s doctor appointments. Slowly their love had turned to hate as they lived in reclusive despondence, like enemies marooned on a deserted island.

  Sasha’s worst fears had today been confirmed. Freddy hadn’t eaten in nearly a week and his body reeked of the malodorous by-products of wasting tissues. He had also begun to talk to himself.

  She had secretly been preparing to leave him for several days. The voice in her head warned her that he was a paranoid schizophrenic, paranoid, always blocking the doors with chairs and listening at the walls, walking around with a raggedy-ass gun in his pants. She thinks of his mother and wonders if the condition could be hereditary… What of her unborn child?

  The phone rang and Freddy jumped for it as if his life depended on how fast he answered. Sasha picked up the bedroom phone at the same time. “Hello? Hello!”

  “Turn on the fucking television,” Mykle yells excitedly. “Turn it to channel seven.”

  “What?” Freddy says in confusion.