by Alan Lee
“Whatever. You think you’re smart.”
“That’s why I’m Wyatt, and you’re not.”
I stood and found my keys.
“Back in a little while.”
“Going to see Ronnie,” he said.
“No. Occurred to me, I haven’t checked messages at my office in three weeks.”
“Sure,” Manny said. “Check your messages. Call it whatever you like. Tell Ronnie I said hola.”
I wished.
I lived five minutes from downtown. Quick drive. I parked opposite Metro, which was alive and pumping with life and vigor. And people younger than me, but probably less attractive.
The light in my office was on. How about that. Not a good sign; I didn’t leave it that way. I remained in the Honda and watched the windows. Someone there? Or maybe the landlord left the light on? After three minutes, my patience was rewarded. Movement and shadow. There was a six-shot revolver in my glove compartment, and I took it out.
Not because I was scared. Rather, because I was prudent. Better safe than shot.
I took the stairs three at a time, because they creaked and snapped. A surefire warning system. If I was unable to move in stealth, at least I could move in speed. I reached the door quickly and entered, and the intruder was caught off guard.
“You,” he said.
“You,” I said.
It was Sergeant Sanders, the detective who resembled a Rottweiler. Beefy forearms, puffy nose. His cheeks were pink. Pistol clipped to his belt. I hadn’t seen him since Stackhouse’s first visit. He had the decency to look abashed.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“Ain’t what it looks like, chief. I can explain,” Sergeant Sanders said.
“And clean up when you’re through?”
“How’d you know I was here? Got hidden cameras?”
“Preternatural instincts, only.”
“Okay, okay. Put away your piece. You know how to use that thing?” Sanders asked.
“I could probably hit my foot if I tried real hard. Why are you here.”
“It’s your pal. The spic. New guy in the marshals office,” he grunted. “He got me worried.”
“The spic’s name is Manny.”
He shrugged.
“Right, whatever.”
“What about him?”
“I looked into him. His file rang a bell. You two got the same references. You two know each other,” Sanders said, with a trace of pride.
“Correct. In fact, he stays at my house.”
“The hell for?”
“We’re amigos,” I said.
“You gay?”
“You wish.”
“Yeah, well. You two being from Los Angeles, and this gang general shows up, and he’s from LA. too. The one we’re after.”
“How do you know the General is from LA?”
“Intel. We think it’s good. And the three of you guys show up within a year.”
“You believe we’re in cahoots, as it were,” I said.
“Just making sure you wasn’t.”
“Weren’t. Not wasn’t.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he said, a stinging rebuke. Somehow, I regrouped.
“And what have you determined?”
“Not much.” He vaguely indicated the office with his thumb. “Dunno what I’m looking for, really.”
“A red jersey with Bloods stenciled on the back.”
“No. I don’t know. Look. I got nervous, that’s all,” Sanders said.
“Certainly you have no warrant.”
“Come on, chief. A warrant? We’re both grown-ups here.”
I waffled my hand. “Eh.”
“How’s the teaching gig?”
“I am shockingly good at it. It wouldn’t hurt your professionalism to audit the class.”
“What I meant is, are you turning up leads? You’re supposed to be turning up leads,” he said.
“Saw a kid put gum under his desk once.”
“This is important, Mack. Maybe you don’t know how big.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“The Bloods are into prostitution. And burglary and drug pushing, and extortion. You name it. And we think it’s about to get worse.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I do this for a living. Damn good at it. I read the signs,” Sanders said.
“Such as?”
“Such as the got’damn signs, Mack, I don’t know. Call it a gut feeling.”
“Ah hah,” I said.
“Ah hah what?”
“We’ve gotten to causes of both your intrusion and your predictions. Your noble prophetic gut.”
“Be serious,” he said. “Gimme what you got. You got names? Suspicions? Stuff I can chase?”
“If I did, this would be neither the time nor the place.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m tired. I caught you red-handed mere moments ago, which means I don’t like you. And I’d want Stackhouse here,” I said.
“The sheriff? She’s a fine piece of ass, ain’t she.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“You know she’s single. Gets around all over town, s’what I heard. What we all hear. Them cans ain’t real,” Sanders said.
“Them cans,” I repeated. “Nobody says ‘cans.’”
“Whatever, they’re fake. Got bigger ten years ago.”
“I can’t believe you called them ‘cans.’”
“What a pain in the ass you are.”
“This I’ve heard,” I said.
“Okay, well. Listen. You get into trouble, you call me directly. You’re a jerk but you’re a jerk on my side.”
“So sweet, Sanders,” I said. “And I didn’t even buy you dinner.”
Chapter Seventeen
A week passed. And nothing happened. Well, nothing except elite English classes. There were no fights at school. Ronnie was out of town. Manny shot a fugitive, directly in the left buttock, but that didn’t qualify as news.
I was stymied in my attempts to locate Silva’s residence. I snuck into the school’s records but he only listed a post office box. Tailing him was tricky because I didn’t know when he’d show up. And he knew what my car looked like.
I went back to the dojo for more mixed martial arts training. Manny came too. We jumped rope, hit bags, and sparred. He was one of those punks who rolled out of bed in peak physical form, not skinny, not fat, simply strong and long limbed. I kept up with him because I outweighed him by fifty pounds. We came home exhausted after ninety minutes.
Silva was a no-show.
Otherwise life was good. Our street smelled like fresh-cut lawn and grills, and temperatures remained in the high seventies. Kix and I played after school. He helped me spread mulch in the shade, and we watched Sesame Street on TiVo. The three adults took turns cooking dinner, steaks and salads and burgers and chicken and hotdogs. After dinner we watched the Nationals fight the Mets for a playoff berth.
Friday night, in my bed, I was visited by an old friend. My partner Richard, shot and deceased almost three years ago. He made periodic appearances, ushered in on the nighttime wings of doubt and worry. What are you doing, he said.
Trying to sleep.
Is this your life now? Are you doing it right?
I hope so. But maybe I’m just disguising and distracting the crazy inner man with a facade.
You haven’t changed. Not really. You’re still violent, he said. He was lying in the morgue, cold and thick like deli turkey.
Yes, but I’m healthier now.
Richard was joined by the North victims. Facedown in their own blood.
You’ve been off drugs and binge drinking and rampant sex and wanton fighting for a long time, they said.
Over two years.
Do you miss it?
I crave the highs. Don’t miss the lows. Don’t miss the depression. It’s getting easier. I hope.
You miss it.
Yes.
Did you fail us
?
No.
You could have prevented it.
No. I don’t think so.
Teachers died at your last school. Because of you.
Life is hard. People die. I wish they didn’t, but. That’s what happened.
Replays of those brutal nights ran through my mind. Like a scary movie viewed too young, indelibly burnt all the way into manhood. I shook my head and shifted on the bed to jostle them, shuffle to happier memories.
We should be gone, Richard said. But we’re not. You keep dwelling on us. Manny doesn’t have these demons.
I bet he does. I’ll ask him.
You’re screwing everything up.
Maybe. But I think this is simply how life works. Muddling along in the dark and hoping I’m not breaking things. Living a life of quiet desperation? More like quiet desperation and hope. And purpose.
But you’re still alone.
Would being with someone change that?
Of course, Richard said.
CS Lewis said we’re built with longings nothing in this life can satisfy.
What a lonely sentiment.
I bet my co-workers feel the same way. We all do. Showing up each morning with this hole inside. The worry. The doubts.
Then what is life? A vacuum?
Richard, go away.
What is life?
I read that men should be judged by their relationships.
Richard didn’t say anything.
I’m doing okay with relationships.
Good relationship with Dad - check.
Good relationship with son - check.
With friends - check.
Coworkers - check, minus Ms. Deere.
Romantic life - unknown. I hadn’t heard from Ronnie recently. But I didn’t need her. I liked her, but I didn’t meditate on her when she was gone. Well, that wasn’t true. But if I didn’t see her again, I wouldn’t be crushed.
The voices had abated.
My insides unclenched. The dread and worry released their grip. What a mess.
Mackenzie August, work in progress.
Chapter Eighteen
Stevie sat on my curb Saturday afternoon, kicking at rocks with the heel of his shoe. His jeans were a little too small and the T-shirt was a hand-me-down. I sat beside him, circling my knees with my arms.
“What’s going on, Stevie?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bored.”
He kicked more pebbles into the street.
“Yeah. I got nothing to do.”
“Your foster brother around?” I asked.
“Naw. He’s always gone, mostly.”
“Must be,” I said. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“He friends with these older kids. He don’t always wanna, but they come get him. Get him into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
“Bad grades. Fights. Bad stuff. I think he’s in a gang.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of gang?” I asked.
“Dunno. Stuff with drugs.”
“You can always come hang out here, at my house. Right? You know that?”
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. August.”
“My house is kinda boring too, though, huh.”
“Nah, but mine’s got an Xbox.”
We talked a few more minutes, until an unmarked police car turned the corner. Stevie identified it immediately.
“Oh crud,” he said.
“It’s okay. Not here for you,” I said.
“Sometimes is. For my mom. Or Mr. Earl. Cops come, you know, and stuff gets weird.”
“Not today.”
“Still. I’m going back to Mr. Earl’s. Bye.” Stevie got up and ran quickly down the sidewalk.
Ah, youthful knees. I stood up, a slower process than in bygone days.
My neighbor’s sprinkler was running. That twit. His lawn radiated verdancy already, making mine more of a grayish green by comparison. Maybe I’d cut his hose.
The police car stopped in front of me. Window buzzed down and Sheriff Stackhouse said, “Get in, if you got a minute.”
“Park around back,” I said. “Have a margarita.”
“Best idea of the day.” She pulled into the driveway and stepped out. Took off her aviators and nestled them into her hair. She pressed her hands into the small of her back, stretched backwards and produced a grunting noise, and then retrieved a folder from her car. She followed me inside and I poured her a glass from the pitcher. “Homemade,” she said.
“Only the best.”
“I like a man knows his way around the kitchen.” Her voice wasn’t deep but it was husky. Used to issuing orders and shouting. She drained half the glass. “Jeez, you’re a big guy, Mack. You use steroids?”
“Used to. College and California. Not in three or four years.”
“Personal question, sorry.”
“No sweat. Someone told me, and I quote, that your cans aren’t real. True?”
She laughed, a delighted throaty sound I worried would wake Kix from his nap. “Turnabout is fair play. Hell no they aren’t real. Are you kidding? Look at me.”
“If you insist.”
“Sad to say, Mackenzie, but they were the best decision I ever made. That and Botox. I went from insecure to a hard-ass. Detective to sheriff.”
“Wow. Those are some magic boobs.”
“I’ll say. Men are such predictable mouth-breathers, they work wonders. Do you know, you’re the first person to directly ask me in five years? Everyone else gossips behind my back.”
“Do they ruin your credibility? As an officer of the law?”
“Often, to the weak-minded. And whether I should or not, I feel the need to prove myself. Kinsey Millhone said it best, that I need to show I’m as tough as the guys, which I’m happy to report isn’t that difficult. And I look hot as hell doing it. But, enough about my tits, perhaps?”
“Sure.”
“Look at these,” she said. She pushed the folder into my hands and I opened it. Glossy photos of a dead body. “Anna Beth Collins. Recently found dead. Junior at Botetourt High School. Her friends say she liked to party and she came to Roanoke to see some guy. They don’t know who. Cocaine residue in her nostrils.”
“Gang markings on the ankle.”
She nodded. “Bloods. Anna Beth is pretty, so this one will be all over the news.”
“I’ve been at the center of that storm. It’s no fun.”
“This new Bloods general is a vicious bastard,” she said.
“Something doesn’t ring true, though.”
“Talk to me, Mackenzie. You’re this big city homicide detective. Stories about you are legendary, enough to make me swoon. What have you learned? What do you know? Why doesn’t it ring true?”
“This pattern of murdering high school girls. Even for gang rites of passage, it’s unusually violent. Violent and unwise, because they’re calling unnecessary attention to themselves.”
“So?”
“If the gangs were truly as violent and uncontrolled as these murders indicate, the brutality would spill over into other areas. There’d be more rumbles in the slums. More fights at the mall. Shootings. Burglaries. But there aren’t. All other areas of the enterprise appear to be orderly, for lack of a better word.”
“You know how it is. The gangbangers aren’t particularly intelligent. They choose a dangerous path, armed with the foreknowledge it will lead to jail or the grave. But they do it anyway. Like animals. Murdering these girls doesn’t strike me as out of character,” she said.
“They aren’t well educated, I agree, but that doesn’t imply a lack of intelligence. They are street smart, and they survive a brutal lifestyle. In most areas, Roanoke’s gangs appear to exercise restraint, but not the rites of passage.”
She finished her margarita, cleaned the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, and pulled them together at her lower lip. “Okay. Why?” she as
ked.
“No idea. I thought you were the sheriff.”
“Not a very good one, apparently.”
“Just a great pair of cans?” I asked.
“Hah. No one says cans, Mackenzie, after the sixth grade.”
“No one says gangbangers anymore either.”
“Tell me about the school. Those students know everything. What have you heard?” she asked.
“I have a few leads but I’m not ready to share yet.”
The photo of Anna Beth Collins was laying on the counter, and she tapped it with her finger. “This isn’t a research project. People are getting hurt.”
“If I tell you what I know, you’ll chase and scare the leads. I’m working on it,” I said.
“You need to tell me, soon as you can. Our Gang and Narcotics guys are getting nothing. Which corroborates your theory that these sets are well disciplined,” she said.
“He could be a ghost. This General? Maybe he’s only a rumor.”
“Maybe. But he has a title. Everyone I’ve interrogated refers to him as the General. That’s unusual for a gang. Makes me think it’s a real person.”
Timothy August parked beside Sheriff Stackhouse’s car. We heard the crunch of tires. He came inside with two bags of groceries purchased from the farmers’ market. He wore the blue shorts with little whales on them, topsiders, and a linen shirt.
“Sheriff Stackhouse. What an honor. You’ll stay for dinner?”
“Timothy, you’re looking well. Dinner? With you? I wish, but that’s three hours away. No, I’ve got places to be, but I appreciate the gesture. How is your elementary school? Crystal Spring, right?”
“We’re humming along nicely. Holy hell, that’s quite a photograph on the counter. Not all of us are accustomed to brutality.”
Stackhouse collected her folder and files, took a grape from one of Dad’s bags, and made eye contact with me. “Keep in touch, Mackenzie.” Then she was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
I took another half day Monday, recruited Manny for an afternoon operation, and waited at the cul-de-sac in Penn Forest near Cave Spring High School. And near the gold Nissan. Like clockwork, Eddie Backpack appeared around two. I was unwilling to bust my cover, as the kids say, so I ducked down in my seat, windows cracked, and peeked over the top, and listened, the same way Superman would do.
Eddie Backpack was wearing Nikes and baggy jeans and a red T-shirt. He froze when he saw Manny leaning against his car. Manny had a pistol and badge clipped to his belt, and a marshal’s cap on. He tipped the cap backwards, like he was in a Western.