When Jaimie asks if anybody’s heard or seen anything, they shake their heads, barely paying her any attention.
Grady walks up behind me in the room’s doorway, too close for comfort. I stand my ground.
“Hello, sexy. I hear you’re looking for me.” Then he turns to Jaimie and says, “I can tell by the way you’re dressed that that’s your bike out there.”
“I’m Kaycie Crawford, attorney at law. Where were you last Friday night, early Saturday morning?” I ask.
He takes a few steps back and his flirtatious body language turns defensive. “I was in the house asleep by ten o’clock Friday night after a long day working on cars.”
“When was the last time you saw Maxine?”
“I saw her when she left for work Friday morning, but I didn’t see her after that and I wasn’t looking for her because I knew she was probably out in the alley somewhere geekin’ like she always do. I didn’t know what happened until the police came knocking on the door early this morning.”
“Grady. Grady, come here,” his bedridden mother calls from the next room. “Who is that out in the hallway? Tell her to come in.”
In the bedroom I tell Ms. Freddie we’re in the neighborhood investigating Maxine’s murder. She orders Grady out of the room and invites me to sit. The only chair in the room is her wheelchair. She tells me to come close because she knows her son is eavesdropping.
Ms. Freddie says, “There’s a saying around here: what goes on in this neighborhood stays in this neighborhood. But that ain’t right when it comes to somebody getting killed. I heard some loud talking in the alley behind the house last night ’cause I like to have my window cracked open to let some cool air in.
“I heard some men fussing about somebody talking to the police about Kenny. I think I heard Maxine’s voice screaming that she didn’t say nothin’ to nobody but they kept on hollering and then there were sounds like cans and bottles falling and banging on the dumpsters. Soon after, I can hear moaning and I think that was when Maxine was getting killed.”
“Were you able to see who it was?”
“No. I can’t get up out of the bed without help. I have to call Grady or one of the kids when I need to go to the bathroom. When it got quiet, I heard some noise in the gangway, but I didn’t think nothing of it. Sometimes, it’s just Maxine back there smoking her dope.
“One thing I know for sure: Ms. Connor, who lives around the corner on West Bentley, sold Grady a $100,000 insurance policy on Maxine six months ago, and I’m just hoping that Grady hasn’t done anything stupid.”
* * *
When Jaimie and I return to Wanda’s house we find Ms. Connor in the front yard barbecuing. “Ms. Connor, I know you sold Grady a life-insurance policy on Maxine. Why didn’t you want to tell us that? Don’t you know that makes Grady a prime suspect?”
“It don’t necessarily,” she counters. “Grady owes me $5,000 I loaned him for his car repair business. He smoked some of it and invested some with Kenny to buy cocaine. I thought Kenny would make up for Grady’s loss. That didn’t happen. So no, I don’t give a shit about helping Kenny because in my mind, he owes me too.”
“You and Grady have more to gain from Maxine’s death than Kenny,” says Jaimie. “You know we will subpoena you to testify about the insurance.”
“You can go to hell. I ain’t testifying about shit and you need to leave my yard before Wanda gets back. Folks who get hurt in this neighborhood end up in a dumpster out in the alley.”
* * *
Back at the office Jimmy hands me the police files and the coroner’s report. Maxine was bludgeoned with a baseball bat and at least two people stomped and kicked her body until it was a sack of bones. The report also states that she was killed in the alley and dragged into the gangway between the Robinsons’ house and the vacant house next door.
If Kenny says that he left her at the gas station then we’ve got to figure out where she went from there and who was the last person to see her alive. The time of death is estimated between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Saturday morning. Jaimie stops examining the crime scene photos and speaks.
“First of all, Kaycie, before I say anything about this stuff, I want my two grand plus my daily rate. That comes out to $2,150.”
I hand her an envelope of cash.
“Thank you.” She shakes her head. “They are crazy over there on Westbrook. They act like they don’t care about Maxine. And that Grady looked me up and down like he wanted to lick the leather off my body.”
“He’s not that bad looking if he wasn’t so dirty,” I say. “For all we know, Grady could be thinking he’s going to collect the money, not realizing that he may be the next one they find dead. He could pay back what he owes Ms. Connor when the policy pays out in six months, but I can’t see her being satisfied with a repayment of a measly five grand, even with 100 percent interest.”
* * *
Sunday, I go to visit Kenny. He doesn’t look so good. His face has been cleaned up, but he’s tired and haggard.
“Kenny, what do you know about Ms. Connor writing a $100,000 insurance policy on Maxine for Grady?”
“She’s got her broker’s license, and she’s written insurance policies for a lot of folks in the neighborhood.”
“It doesn’t seem like Grady is responsible enough to keep up with the monthly premiums.”
“Ms. Connor pays the premiums for him and he gives her money every now and then when she sees that he’s been working steady,” Kenny replies. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was plotting on Grady and Maxine, or even me, for that matter, since I owe her about two thousand.”
“Why would you owe her any money?”
“Sometimes she fronts me money to buy dope when I’m short on cash. She’s been hounding me about it and I think she ratted me out to the narc.”
“Lakewood?”
“Right. He hassles the prostitutes, takes their dope, and forces them to do things in exchange for not locking them up. Ms. Connor is behind on protection payments to him. There have been so many police calls from her tenants, she can’t afford any more trouble.”
“How does Wanda fit into all this drama?”
“Wanda has no income other than selling dope for me. She either smokes it up or gives it away to the hookers when they come by the house late at night. I slapped her around a few times, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I figure that Ms. Connor should be responsible for Wanda’s debt.”
Back at the office I call Lance and tell him I need to see Kenny’s girlfriend.
* * *
When Fulani James arrives, she’s tastefully dressed in a sharp leather jacket and a black wool dress with a leather belt. Kenny Jr., about five years old, is looking handsome in a wool tweed sports jacket with a turtleneck and khakis.
“Is this Kenny Jr.?”
“Yeah, this is me!” the boy replies.
“You both look really nice. Have you all been to church?”
“Thank you. Yes,” she answers. “I’m worried about Kenny getting convicted. My baby needs his daddy.”
“Do you believe he’s innocent, Ms. James?”
“You can call me Fulani, Miss Kaycie. Yeah, I believe he’s innocent, but I also know he’s got a temper. I told him if he ever hit me, I’ll shoot his ass, and he knows I’m not playing.”
“Fulani, where do you work?”
“The gas company. I’m going to St. Louis U, majoring in business administration. I’ve been trying to convince Kenny to stop this dope slinging and enroll in school. He has a good head for business. And he’s a good father.”
“Fulani, can you prove that you were with Kenny last Saturday night?”
“Yeah. We took Little Kenny to see a movie downtown after dinner at the Bread Company. Afterward, we came home and Kenny stayed until the next morning.”
“Do you have any receipts?”
“Nope. Kenny paid cash and I didn’t keep any receipts or ticket stubs.” Fulani is beginning to sound discourage
d. I ask her if she has a family photo and she hands one over.
“Fulani, I’m going to have my investigator show your picture to the employees at the cinema. Somebody will remember you all.”
When they’re gone I call Jaimie so she can get the photo and find witnesses at the movie theater.
* * *
Later that afternoon I drive to Westbrook with Lance. We pull up around the corner on Davenport and Lance sees one of his “sales reps.”
“What’s up, Big Rush? What’s been happening around here?”
“Running from Lakewood. He’s been hassling folks more than usual lately. I thought you and him were cool.”
“We were until he tried to raise his price. I warned his ass I could have his job at any time, but he don’t believe it.”
I butt in. “Hey, Big Rush, have you noticed anybody in the neighborhood spending more money than usual lately?”
Lance looks at me sideways. “Big Rush, this is Kaycie Crawford, Kenny’s lawyer.”
“Now that you mention it, Troy and Tyrone have been buying dope, drinking cognac, and partying on Vandalia up over the doughnut shop the past few days. They’re both usually begging to run errands for us so we can give them a hit or two. Troy told me he won the lottery.”
We drive over two blocks to the corner building. The doughnut shop is closed. Lance knocks hard on the door, then he looks up at the window to see somebody peeking through the crooked blinds. He knocks again, turns the doorknob—the door is unlocked. We climb the stairs and find Troy sprawled out asleep across the bed with a topless woman sitting at a table smoking crack while roaches crawl up and down the wall next to her.
“Troy, wake your ass up!” Lance snaps, then turns to the woman. “And you—get your ass out!”
Dumbstruck, she throws on her coat, grabs her pipe, scrapes some crumbs into her hand, and runs down the steps, slamming the door on the way out. I look on the table to see if there’s anything left.
Lance grabs Troy by his dirty sagging jeans and pulls him off the bed. “Troy, I said wake your ass up!”
Troy, still half-dazed, answers, “Wha . . . what . . . ? What you want, Lance? How the hell you get into my house?”
“Where’s Tyrone? Where in the hell y’all get all this money you’ve been spending?”
“I hit the lottery, man!”
“Oh yeah? What were your numbers?”
When Troy starts stuttering, Lance grabs him by the throat. “You lying, Troy. What you know about what happen to Maxine?”
“How the fuck I know? That crazy fool is always hidin’ in the alley smokin’ her dope. She don’t ever share. I’m glad her ass is dead.”
The downstairs door opens and slams and Tyrone runs upstairs only to find Lance waiting for him next to the doorway. Lance throws him down on the floor next to Troy and pulls out his nine millimeter.
“Tyrone, where Troy get all this money?”
Tyrone doesn’t respond, glancing over at Troy as if he might answer for him.
“Tyrone, I’m going to ask you one more time: where did all the money come from?” Then Lance fires his gun into the dirty mattress and they both start hollering. I damn near scream, but I don’t dare.
Tyrone yells, “Ms. Connor gave us the money!”
“Shut the hell up, Tyrone,” says Troy.
“Fuck you, Troy. I ain’t about to get shot covering for your mama. If I go to jail, I’ll still be alive. It ain’t like I ain’t never been in jail. Look here, Lance, Ms. Connor gave us five hundred apiece if we take down Maxine. Troy hit her in the head with the bat and we both stomped her ass and dragged her into Grady’s gangway.”
“Lance, call your contacts on the force and tell them to pick these two up.”
* * *
Kenny is released after a week, his bail still pending on the drug charge that Lakewood trapped him on. When Kenny comes out of the elevator into the lobby, he hugs Lance. He grabs me and kisses me on the lips and softly says, “Thank you,” then runs out the door to where Fulani and Kenny Jr. wait outside.
* * *
“Kaycie, you should pay me for cracking your case. Jaimie wasn’t nowhere around.”
“Man, you need to quit,” says Jaimie. “You know I talked to some of those dudes over there on Westbrook and all they wanted to do was grab me until they saw I was strapped. By the way, Kaycie, I will be sending you my bill.”
“I’ll need your help with Kenny on this drug charge. Let’s go to Steve Charles’s for dinner and drinks to celebrate—my treat. The sky’s the limit.”
After a sumptuous steak dinner accompanied by several martinis, Rémy Martins, and an endless glass of club soda with lime for Jaimie, we all go our separate ways, Lance to his loft apartment, Jaimie to her boyfriend’s house.
And me, I start to call Michael but hang up instead. Then I head over to Wanda’s on West Bentley and knock on the door. I can hear that damn Keith Sweat moaning and groaning. I knock harder.
“Who is it?” Wanda screams in her deep raspy voice.
“It’s me, Barbara.”
One Little Goddamn Thing
by Scott Phillips
Sauget, Illinois
Commercial St. Louis looks like it was razed entirely and replaced by a different city on the same grid. The grocery stores, banks, drugstores I knew are all gone, replaced by new ones in the wrong places. Chain stores, all of them, the same as I’ve been seeing in Kansas City the last six months. Right now I’m sitting in front of a bar on Maplewood just west of McCausland, or rather the space where the bar used to be. Now it’s a sandwich shop. Even after thirty years of prison food those chain-store sandwiches taste like shit to me. I got my first blow job in that bar’s parking lot, from a friend of my sister Kathie’s by the name of Cheryl Krieger. The same Cheryl who ended up testifying against me; I certainly don’t blame her for it, but I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt at the time.
But that first night, years before, Cheryl and I had been at the bar for a couple of hours, drinking beer served up by an elderly bartender with a pocked, purplish nose, spectacularly bushy white eyebrows, and no apparent compunctions about serving underage kids. Cheryl put her hand on my thigh and whispered in my ear that we should go outside to my car. There, on the squeaking vinyl upholstery of my ’78 Isuzu, she swabbed my virgin knob, and the look of proud satisfaction on her face as she wiped her lips clean with the back of her forearm afterward remains as vivid in my mind as any memory I can lay claim to. While I’m trying to remember exactly which space it was where this happened, it occurs to me that sweet lusty Cheryl could be a grandmother by now.
Thirty years I’ve been gone, almost. One pass through town, just to satisfy my curiosity about a few things, and then I’ll be gone again for good. I’m not very sentimental by nature; that fondly remembered blow job is about as close as I’m going to get to nostalgia.
I won’t be seeing my sister Kathie, except maybe from a distance if things go right; just a brief, tangible reminder that I pissed my youth away for a good reason. My last contact with her consisted of this charming letter, addressed to me shortly after the start of my Irish vacation:
Dear brother Tony,
It pains me to write this sad missive but you will understand that with Mother and Father gone and you in prison I am now the head of our family.
Douglas and I are attempting to bring up the children in a good Catholic manner and they must not know that their beloved uncle is a “jailbird” or convict and so I have told them that you were unfortunately killed in a motorcycle crash involving one of those big trucks one sees on the highway. Do not worry, I informed them that your tragic death was quick and painless but that you had time to tell the highway patrolman that you sure loved your nieces and nephew.
(I imagine the kids still think I’m dead. I’d love to show up at Thanksgiving dinner and surprise them with the truth, have a look at my various nieces and nephews, but that wouldn’t be fair to Kathie. As far as she knew––and according t
o her own husband and the state of Missouri––I was the kind of person you didn’t want influencing your kids.)
Douglas is especially real disappointed in you. He has always looked up to you and considered you at one time like a real brother. Don’t worry about me for he is starting up his own construction business and will be a good breadwinner for the children and me.
Affectionate goodbye,
Kathie
All I’d asked in return for twenty-eight years of my life was for Doug to do right by her. I get back into the car and drive over to McCarran Construction, not certain exactly what my intentions are. It’s ten minutes to noon when old Dougie comes out, looking hale and hearty, a little gray but still a big man with a straight carriage and a purposeful stride. He always did have that gift of looking like a straight arrow; when we set our shop teacher’s garage on fire in seventh grade he was caught a block away and talked his way out of the whole scrape, throwing suspicion on a pair of nonexistent black guys in a gold Lincoln Continental. I had a bit of the same gift—maybe that’s why we were such good pals. Together we were able to get away with misdeeds that children of more sinister mien would have gone down for, and hard.
Besides the gray at the temples, his only concession to the passage of time is a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses that make him look like an engineer or an architect. He gets into a Caddy, recognizable as such to my eyes only by the familiar logo on the rear hatch. My own car––the property of my wife Paula, in fact––is an older and considerably more modest model; even so, there are components that I find unnecessary, distracting, or confusing. The first time I drove it in the rain, Paula had to explain to me where the windshield wiper controls were, and at that moment I knew that without her help I’d be 100 percent fucked on the outside.
The Cadillac’s bumper is festooned with all manner of information on the fancy private schools the kids attend and not-so-subtle hints at Doug’s politics, about which I don’t give a shit. One reading EQUAL RIGHTS FOR UNBORN WOMEN, though, makes me wonder whether Doug has ever ratted me out to my sister about Cheryl’s abortion. Doug didn’t approve at all back then, yelled at us both and called it murder, asking me what was I going to say in confession. When I told him I didn’t go to confession anymore, didn’t even consider myself a Catholic anymore, it was about as close as our friendship ever came to collapsing. But he stopped talking about it, and I assumed he must have gotten over it eventually.
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