In This Life

by Leo Sullivan

  Freddy continued to interrogate Dawson in an ever widening pool of blood.

  Mario returned to the living room after a fruitless search of the rest of the suite. He kneeled beside the dying man. “Once the Senator is elected we’re all dead. You need to tell us where Marilyn is.”

  Dawson looked up through his one good eye, his words slurred. “Marilyn’s with the cop…they…they up to somethin’…she been gone over two weeks. The last time I seen her she was in California workin’ on a movie, and her and the cop were arguing real bad… The next thing I know, she’s gone…disappeared.”

  “You said there’s another woman involved?” Freddy asked, Mario’s earlier words in the car now coming back to him.

  A look of sheer terror came into Dawson’s eyes as he was about to answer.

  “Freddy!” Mario yelled. “Go wait for me at the elevator!”

  The command in his tone of voice was punctuated by the gun he was pointing at Freddy. The two men stared at each other as Mario began to screw a silencer onto the barrel of his weapon.

  “Man, what the fuck is up with you?” asked Freddy, the gun in his hand pointed in Mario’s direction as if of its own volition. Slowly, he backed towards the door, his mind unable to grasp the situation until his hand reached the doorknob. It was then that he realized what Mario intended to do and with that knowledge came an unexpected sympathy for Billy Dawson, a man who had once tried to kill him.

  Mario’s face became a granite mask. He felt nothing for Dawson but an overriding need to eliminate him, to keep him from running to the Senator and telling what they were up to.

  Freddy stepped out into the hallway to the sounds of Dawson’s pleas for mercy, as he tried to crawl away from death. Mario shot him once in the head.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the car, they rode in disturbing silence. Two distinctly different men with one common bond: They wanted to survive against seemingly insurmountable odds.

  “You killed him…” Freddy broke the silence.

  “Listen, kid,” sighed Mario, his patience obviously wearing thin. “You never ever pull a gun on someone without using it, especially if they’ve seen your face. It’ll come back to haunt you.”

  “But--”

  “Mario cut him off, his voice going up an octave. “Look, in this business, there can be no mistakes!”

  Freddy was speechless as Mario reached over and turned on the radio. Earth, Wind & Fire was playing their hit song “Reasons” and, to Freddy’s utter surprise, Mario began to bob his head and drum his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along as if he had composed the lyrics himself.

  ******

  Mario eased the Benz slowly along, the traffic for some reason had stalled up ahead. They both saw the reason at the same time: an elegant, white carriage drawn by a pair of white horses, followed by several matching stretch limos.

  Freddy had talked with Sasha’s father earlier that morning and had learned that the Senator was true to his word. He had spared no expense in arranging Sasha’s funeral and burial at the Sunrise cemetery. Sasha Jinkins was to be buried like an African princess.

  “What the fuck?!” Freddy gibed, his mouth open in awe.

  “You asked for a princess’ burial. The Senator got more money than God… Freddy, he wants them photos and deeds back.”

  So, do I, thought Freddy.

  Mario parked the car a block from the funeral home. Freddy knew that he would be a fool to walk into a trap by attending Sasha’s funeral that evening, so sneaking in this morning while the funeral home was still closed might be the only chance he’d get to say goodbye.

  “You coming?” asked Freddy as he stepped out the car.

  “Nahhh, you go ahead… I was never good at sayin’ goodbye to the dead.”

  Freddy glanced furtively up and down the street as he moved away from the car. The snow was starting to melt, turning to slush as a lazy sun peeked shyly from behind gray clouds.

  The sign on the door of the funeral parlor read, “Closed ‘til 9:00 a.m.” Freddy glanced at his Rolex, 7:50. He banged on the door loud enough to wake the dead.

  An elderly black man in a shabby brown suit finally answered the door, his mahogany face cracked with a thousand wrinkles. “Boy, what you tryin’ ta do, break my damn window? Can’t you see we closed?”

  “Mr. Lee, it’s me, Ronny Thugstin’s boy.”

  The old man’s brow furrowed as he searched his mind to recall who the young man might be talking about.

  “You buried my daddy back in ’74,” Freddy reminded him. “Back in the day, him and your son David went to school together.”

  A dim light in Lee’s mind finally lit with recognition. “God bless the dead, but your father and my boy were like oil and water.” The old man’s face took on a calm look of acceptance as he fumbled at opening the door. His son had also died in 1974 from a heroin overdose. “Them two boys stayed in trouble all the time. Yep, and you tall just like ‘im.” The man’s face became serious as he asked, “What you want here?”

  Freddy nodded his head ingratiatingly as he explained, “Sasha Jinkins, she was my fiancée… She died while giving birth to our child.” Freddy straightened as he said stiffly, “I need to see her before you put her in the ground.”

  “Son, I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but them white folks done been in here spending’ a whole heap of money on that chile… pedicures, exotic oils and baths and other such things as I ain’t never seen done before. Why don’ you just come to the service tonight?”

  “I can’t,” Freddy said forcefully.

  “Why not?” the old man asked, taking a step closer.

  “The law is looking for me… They’ll probably be layin’ for me at the funeral tonight….”

  “Now, son, it ain’t my place to be in anyone’s business, and I’m not gonna ask you what you done--”

  “I ain’t done nothin’!” Freddy screeched.

  “Son, I been knowin’ your family for years, ‘specially your father before he passed, but I still can’t let you in.” Mr. Lee quietly closed the door in Freddy’s face and started to hobble away.

  In a panic, Freddy pounded on the door even harder than the first time. In a moment, the door opened once more and the old man’s face reappeared, etched with anger. “Boy! You harduh hearin’ or somethin’? You beat on my glass just one mo’ time, I’ma beat on yo’ ass with’ dis here ballbat.” Lee then took a threatening step forward. “You cain’t pay for this glass door.”

  Money, Freddy thought, and he reached into his pocket to pull out a large roll of cash. Mr. Lee’s big eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “You can have it, all of it,” Freddy offered with an outstretched hand.

  “How much is it?” the old man asked.

  “I dunno, maybe two or three grand.” Freddy spoke naively as he watched the covetous spell of greed grow in the old man’s eyes. “Here, please, take it! I need to say goodbye to her just one more time.’

  In one quick motion the old man snatched the cash and at the same time ushered Freddy inside. “Me and yo’ family go way back…”

  Freddy stepped into the gloomy netherworld of the black draped funeral parlor. The lighting was dim and the room was stale with the musky odor of mold. The furniture looked ancient, made of well worn oak and faded pastel fabrics. He followed Mr. Lee past a succession of rooms darkly veiled.

  Lee stopped, licking his thumb as he counted the money and nodded toward the door, “She’s in there, nodding toward the door. He licked his thumb as he counted the money. “She’s in there.” Pulling a piece of paper from the stack of cash, he flipped it over to look at it. “What’s this?” It had a name and phone number written on it. “Uhh, dis belong to you?”

  Freddy shrugged, taking the paper.

  “How much money you got left?” Lee asked.

  Freddy patted his pockets indicating he was broke.

  “Here, take this. Never take a man’s last.” Lee handed Freddy a fift
y dollar bill. Pointing to the room, he said, “Take as long as you want,” and then he walked way, leaving Freddy staring at the ominous black curtain, the entrance to Sasha’s last sanctuary.

  Freddy stepped inside, the radiant splendor of the room’s incandescent glow nearly blinding him. There were candles everywhere, as well as clusters of white roses and other beautiful exotic flowers that he had never seen before.

  Sasha’s body was adorned in a heavenly white silk sari-like gown. She looked serenely angelic and almost alive, her body surrounded by a golden aura that seemed to pulse with life. Her delicate hands were crossed one over the other where they lay just below her breasts, and the large diamond wedding ring that Marilyn had given her was still on her finger.

  As he approached, his breathing became more labored; the entire scene literally took his breath away. Gently, he bent down and kissed her on the lips. As soon as he stood back up he felt something welling inside of him, telling him something was wrong…terribly wrong! In the back of his mind he could hear Sasha’s voice telling him to leave. And there were other voices: his father’s…Dr. Utomo’s…and a host of others not nearly so recognizable. As he had always done in the past, he refused to listen, willing the voices to go away.

  A sudden searing pain lanced through his brain, sending him to his knees, his hands clasping the sides of his head in agony. Warm liquid gushed from his nose, wiping at it with the back of his hand, he saw it was blood. Sasha screamed in his mind, “Run!”

  “I ain’t runnin’ no damn mo’,” he hollered at her peaceful face. Wiping his nose once more, he pulled himself up at the edge of the casket, all the while resisting the danger he felt in the pit of his stomach.

  The candles swayed as the curtains moved. Someone was behind him. “Boy, I don’ want no problems in my establishment. You just like yo’ father was, think you above the law. So I done you and me both a favor and let the police in. Son, this is fo’ yo’ own good.”

  Freddy listened with his back to Mr. Lee. Crestfallen, his head dropped and he reached down to caress Sasha’s hand.

  “Freddy Thugstin! I have a warrant for your arrest. Raise your hands above your head and turn around real slow,” Detective Mark Fermen ordered.

  Freddy remained seemingly motionless, easing his hand toward the pistol in the waistband of his pants.

  “Call the police,” Fermen instructed the old man. “And tell them Detective Fermen needs back up and that it’s an emergency.”

  Lee could tell from the tone of his voice that there was something not quite right with the cop. “Dat boy ain’t resistin’, officer. So why donch’a just han’cuff ‘im and take ‘im?”

  Fermen pushed his weapon within inches of the old man’s face. “Go call the fuckin’ police and tell them what I said…Now!”

  Mr. Lee scurried from the room in a hurry.

  “This is the end of the line for you, slime bag. I’ve been staked out here all night waitin’ for you. I always said you nigges ain’t too smart. Now, let’s see your bad ass get outta this one, punk. It’ll be over my dead body.” Fermen’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Well, pig, you must plan on dyin’ today, ‘cuz the kid is leavin’ with me,” said a voice behind Fermen. “Move and I’ll splatter your goddamn brains all over this place!” It was Mario. The sound of his gun cocking in the lull of a temporary silence served to magnify the seriousness of his intentions.

  Taking a deep sigh, Freddy closed his eyes. His grip loosened on the thirty-eight nestled in the palm of his hand. Just as he was turning around, Fermen spun around and dropped to one knee in a shooting stance and snapped off three shots in quick succession. Mario’s return fire hit the cop in the chest, slamming him flat onto his back, his weapon careening across the floor and coming to rest only inches from Freddy’s feet.

  With his gun held loosely in his hand and his mouth agape, Freddy watched it all occur as if in slow motion. Mario went to his knees, clutching at a crimson throat, blood gushing through his fingers from the hole in his neck. His once opaque eyes were filled with fear as he stared at a distant place that only a dying man could see before his body folded to the floor as blood gurgled from his mouth. His eyes began to blink with a sudden confused gaze.

  The gun at his feet, Freddy’s attention was drawn to Fermen who had rolled onto his stomach and was crawling, desperately reaching, fingers outstretched toward the gun.

  Fermen screamed out in pain as Freddy stomped his wrist. Cocking his pistol, Freddy aimed it at the detective’s face.

  Facing imminent death, Fermen resorted to the only tactic left to him: he begged. “I have a wife and three kids,” he wailed. “Please don’t kill me!”

  “Yeah, muthfucka, I use to have a wife too,” Freddy snarled. Looking over at a dying Mario, he added, “A man once told me to never pull a gun on a man without using it…”

  The gun exploded.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The presidential election was less than two months away. In the latest opinion polls, Senator Bob Williams was leading by a landslide, 72% to President Clancy’s meager %26. The Sandra Blaylock scandal, combined with the pending impeachment proceedings, was taking its toll on the faltering incumbent. It was rumored that the Senator and his wife had already hired an interior decorator to redo the White House bedrooms.

  The Senator answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “The pictures--the media has pictures of you and that damned disgusting dog!” The voice belonged to an irate Livingston.

  “What pictures?” Bob asked, feigning innocence as his heart plummeted toward his stomach.

  “Listen you psychopathic imbecile!” Livingston shrieked in the phone. “We don’t have time for your pathetic games. If we act now, we may be able to save face, if not the millions we have invested in you. We’ll just say that you have cancer or some other debilitating illness and announce your withdrawal from the race.” With these words, the Senator’s glass house shattered. His skeletons were throwing stones.

  “I will not step aside,” the Senator said in a fit of bravado.

  “You don’t have a choice,” Livingston threatened, but the Senator hung up in his face. Livingston immediately called the TABLE.

  Two days later news broke of the suspicious death of the reporter Geraldo Rivera. It was reported that a young couple heard a horrifying scream and looked up to see the reporter plunge to his death from the nineteenth floor offices of ABC’s Eyewitness News. The body landed only feet away from them. Authorities found an unsigned typed suicide note.

  The very next morning the body of Senator Bob Williams was discovered by his butler, with a bullet-hole in its head. His death was also ruled a suicide, even though no weapon was ever found.

  ******

  Freddy fired the gun inches from the cop’s head, and Fermen fainted. It might have been kinder to just kill him. From that day forward Fermen would be paralyzed from the neck down.

  Sirens blared in the distance as Freddy’s mind raced in a million different directions. Mario waived him over to where he now lay on his back. Freddy’s eyes darted to the door as he approached the dying man.

  “Closer,” Mario beckoned, coughing up blood. Freddy frowned, wanting to turn away. “Looks…bad...huh, kid?” He coughed again. Mario tried to smile through blood-stained teeth.

  As Freddy knelt down, straining to hear Mario’s last words, he heard car doors slamming and a sudden cacophony of voices outside. The police were arriving in throngs.

  With his last breath, Mario crooned, “The woman…the woman is--” He died with his eyes open and a gun clenched in his fist.

  Standing, Freddy heard footsteps approaching. He looked around at the carnage of bodies. In his mind, the voices beckoned him again, “Leave…run.” With the gun in his hand, he frantically looked for a way out. Finally, he dashed to a window he saw half hidden behind a bouquet of roses.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  He dove through the
window, glass shattering in a crystal explosion, shots ringing out behind him. He landed on the slushy pavement in an alley. Rolling to his feet, he took off running. As he neared the end of the alley a police car came to a screeching halt, cutting him off. He reversed direction only to find another car headed toward him down the narrow lane. Shit, he was being sandwiched.

  To his right and a few yards ahead, he spied a tall, ramshackle wooden fence. Placing the gun in the back of his pants, he ran straight at the approaching car and at the last moment he leapt up, grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself toward the top.

  Cars screeched to a stop, shoes pounding pavement. Just as he managed to get an arm over the top of the fence, someone grabbed his leg, trying to dislodge him. A cacophony of voices barely penetrated the roar in his ears as someone smacked the back of his thigh with a Billy club. He tugged against the weight on his leg and the hands slipped down to his ankle. Freddy gave a final mighty jerk and the sudden momentum of release sent him sprawling over the other side of the fence, leaving a cop holding only a shoe.

  Freddy never even felt the cold snow under his bare foot as he ran on raw adrenaline and determination through a familiar labyrinth of alleys and passageways, the seemingly subterranean thoroughfares of the ghetto, an unsolvable maze to outsiders.