Yellow Medicine

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “Hm,” he said, then he chuckled, grinned.

  “—yeah, yeah. Well Paul just out and out broke them. A lot of my bending had to do with protecting him. Because of that, I guess he trusted me more than he should have. Always thought I’d go along.”

  “And did you?”

  “To a point. Too far probably.” I waited for him to ask something else. He didn’t. But I felt a need to spill. Maybe it was the “nearly dying” thing. “I killed a drug dealer who was blackmailing Paul. Guy had already been busted, was trying to make a deal, but figured it was more important to have the upper hand inside. Protection, right? A cop in your pocket, you’re a king in the joint.”

  “Pretty smart.”

  “Except that he wanted money, too. Wanted a bribe to keep his mouth shut. Wouldn’t budge. We told him over and over that having us on his side was enough. But the fucker kept rubbing his fingers together, pulling this ‘all about the Benjamins’ shit he’d seen on TV. No business sense at all.”

  “I see.”

  “We think it was a cop show, with the bald guy? Some sort of gangsta godfather had him by the balls. Asimov told our guy that the difference was on TV, they had to stretch it out for more shows. In real life we just end your ass.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, we did it. Boom. Guy was threatening our families, our jobs, all that.”

  He grunted. Both of us still watching the fire. The hypnotic effect of the flames almost made me forget it was a funeral pyre until I focused on Paul’s finger bones. I let it blur again.

  Graham said, “But I thought you said you did it. Not ‘us’. You.”

  I shrugged, didn’t like the feeling. “For both of us. I was the one with the shotgun. We’d taken it from the scene of a robbery, kept it just in case. As far as anyone knows, our godfather was shot with a stolen twelve-gauge. I’ve never told anyone else this.”

  Another chuckle from Graham, a much less funny joke. “I can see why.”

  “So you want to take me in? Get this over with?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  My swollen eye burned. I covered it with my palm. What did I want, anyway? “As long as Drew is safe—”

  “Geez, you’re like a broken record. Shut up for a minute, all right?”

  I shut up. I don’t think I’d ever heard him be so direct. Maybe it had been there all along, but religion or the wife or the kids had kept it in check.

  He said, “There were rumors about the shooting. I heard them when I called around before hiring you on. But at the time, I had someone else telling me to trust you, and I was willing to hear her out.”

  “Ginny.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You already know she went to bat for you big time. When I asked about the rumor, though, she said if it were true, the scum deserved it.”

  “Wow.” I’d assumed all this time she hated me for what I had done as a cop. Never once thought she was on my side. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Anyway, the point is that I knew you weren’t the cleanest cop out there, but I also knew you were loyal, sort of. And I knew you didn’t want to lose your job because of your kids. I mean, that’s my niece and nephew we’re talking about, too. If I believed for one minute you were screwing around with terrorists, well…” He trailed off, waved his hand towards the fire.

  The grass rustled behind us. I turned my head. Drew was easing up to my side, covering her eyes with the sleeves of a sweater. “Is it safe to look?”

  I tried to put my arm around her. It hurt way too much. She stepped away.

  She said to the sheriff, “I’m so sorry. That was terrible. I don’t know how you could do it.”

  “Had to be done,” Graham said.

  After a while I said, “So why help me? Just curious, you know. Why not go by the book?”

  “Because you won’t get a break from the Feds. They’d pretty much drop you in a hole you can’t escape from, question you fifteen hours a day even though you don’t have any answers.” He glanced at Drew, then me. Back to the flames. “I heard the way they were talking about you that night. Even Rome. You’re as bad as Osama himself.”

  Drew rubbed my back. “He’s the most honest liar I’ve ever met, at least. I don’t know why I still trust him, but I do.”

  Graham said, “I think it’s charisma.”

  “Or my pretty face,” I said. “So what next?”

  “I hope the Malaysians left town. Maybe they think you’re a loose end already taken care of.”

  “I doubt it. They’ll assume Paul told me everything, so they’ll need to see me dead with their own eyes.”

  “Did he? Tell you?” Graham said.

  My turn to grin. Asimov had gotten me into trouble, yes indeed. But he also gave me a ticket out as a parting gift. “Sure as hell.”

  TWENTY

  The wounds would have to heal along the way. I had Drew stitch the slice under my arm as best she could with the first aid kit from Graham’s cruiser. It took nineteen. I powered through it. She bandaged the cut above my eye. Otherwise, I’d just have to fake it until my focus came back. Then, dirty jeans and black boots. A bowling shirt, two pins with devil tails crossed on the back with a foxy femme fatale right in the middle. Leather jacket.

  Combed and slicked my hair back like Gene Vincent Reborn. Shaved the mustache. I was ready.

  We were invading Detroit. Taking it to the Malaysians’ backyard where the orders were being shouted out. On their own, our terrorists were powerless. We wanted to find the source, arrange a “final meeting” on our terms. Graham’s idea. This whole business and the threats against his family had lit him up in a way I hadn’t expected. I wondered what he would do if I weren’t involved—let the FBI run with it? Go home and line his windows with heavy-duty plastic, buy bulletproof vests for the kids? Move farther out into farm country than he already was? I’d thought of giving up just hours earlier. Not worth it. But whatever he saw in my false front was feeding him courage.

  The Malaysians had taken Paul’s rental car, but I thought about what he told me right before they shot him. Said he’d “left me something”, then asked if I still preferred brunettes over blondes. Maybe he hid some evidence in a place his keepers wouldn’t suspect. Graham, Drew, and I needed a place to start. We each took a room. Only took twenty minutes for me to get into Paul’s head, notice a box in the office, three from the top of a four box pile I still hadn’t unpacked. The tape on one side was loose. I moved the other boxes, found that the tape had been ripped off across the top. If Paul had looked in others first, then he did a good job backtracking with new tape. Inside were back issues of Playboy from the eighties, some of my dad’s that had been passed down to me, collectors’ items.

  So…which one?

  The top was too easy. Bottom was the same principle. Paul must’ve thought it through. He remembered what Ginny looked like. Brunette. Most of the girls I went for. Drew, too. Maybe he chose a deadringer? I didn’t think there were any. My fingers walked through the pile. He was in a hurry. You want it to be loud.

  It was plenty loud. Bright red, too.

  “Women of Canada.” On the cover, a drop-dead brunette in a red mountie uniform. A cop.

  I yanked the issue from the stack, flipped, and found folded pages, some emails, all coded but easy to crack once you knew the players. The others were handwritten notes, some in Paul’s careful block letters the same as his reports, but others scrawled as if written in a big hurry. Then, a Mapquest printout of four addresses in Detroit. I guessed our little wannabe terrorists moved around a lot. I hoped we weren’t too far behind the curve.

  “Found it,” I shouted. Graham came in from the kitchen, then Drew a few moments later. He took the pages, looked through, nodded stiffly the way he always did.

  Soon as the fire died to ashes and embers, he would be right beside me bagging the bones. We would spread them along the roadside wilderness on the drive from Pale Falls to Detroit, some sixteen hours east. One day
I’d make sure Paul’s family found out what really happened to him, sort of. By then I’ll probably say he went hiking alone, never returned. Attacked by a bear, most likely.

  I told Graham, “You’re in charge, Sheriff. It’s your call.”

  Drew looked nervous. I didn’t know what to say to her—I wanted her to come along, and so did she, but how do you break it to Graham? He flipped a couple more pages, glanced up—me, then Drew, then, “Your tires are flat, and there’s no way we can take the cruiser and be conspicuous. I guess that leaves us looking for a ride.”

  Drew said, “Mine’s good on gas.”

  “Kind of old, isn’t it?”

  “They last forever.”

  Another official head nod before saying, “Well that seals it. Let me call George, tell him to get a few deputies to keep watch at my house.”

  “You can’t tell him where we’re going, though.”

  “I’ll just say something came up in the case.” He grinned. “I’ll tell him it’s classified. That’ll do it. Then I’ll call home, see if the kids can’t skip school for a couple days.”

  He stared at the cell phone in his hand another long moment. I wished I could say something to help, or tell him to go home, protect his family. But I was being selfish. I needed his help to get a little revenge.

  When he left the room, Drew said, “I’m scared, but I’d feel worse sitting at home. I hope it’s okay if I come along.”

  “It’s better than okay. It’s the right thing to do.”

  She giggled, suddenly turning on her stage persona, then said “Let me doll myself up. Never know who you’ll meet at a truck stop.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  We were in a working-class suburb outside of Detroit. A not-too-dirty row of townhouses. Graham and I stood at the door marked 4 and knocked. We heard shuffling. We leaned against the door on either side of the eyehole. He could still see us, but not as clearly as he would’ve liked.

  “Who is it?” Heavily accented. Arab.

  Graham said, “Friends.”

  A pause. He was checking us out. “You have the wrong house.”

  “Are you sure? Paul told us otherwise.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Paul.”

  I said, “He said you would say that. He also said to tell you ‘I like Disney cartoons. Let’s rent one.’”

  It had been in his notes. This address, the name “Aziz”, and the secret phrase.

  Aziz, if that’s who this was, waited another half a minute before finally unlocking the door and opening it as if were made of stone. We had to look down. Short guy, maybe five four. He had a close-cropped haircut, no beard. Tiny wire-rimmed glasses. And he wore an Italian soccer jersey over jeans.

  “Paul sent you?”

  I nodded. “He’s had some trouble, didn’t have your number handy. We’re going to help him but he wanted us to clear it with you first.”

  “Me?”

  Maybe we’d fucked up. Paul had jotted down “contact” and a couple of other words we couldn’t make out—written quickly, probably on his knees. The words curved down, letters spaced out. Still, the door was open.

  Graham looked out at the street, the neighboring townhouses. “Not on the porch, man. They’ll get photos of us.”

  Without waiting for an invite, he stepped past Aziz, who was still thinking about the imaginary surveillance. We had staked the place out for a few hours. He didn’t know we were watching, and we knew for damn sure no one was watching him. All the better for us. No telling when the Feds might pop up along this trail, but we kept the radar on.

  I followed Graham. Aziz closed the door and jittered. “Really? Paul did this? I’m being watched?”

  A tight hallway, empty of adornment. Off to the left, a narrow living room. The furniture looked stock. Probably furnished when he moved in. I caught a flash of movement, blonde hair, and a woman’s whisper: “Oh shit!”

  She reached for a headscarf that was draped across the armrest. I caught the side of her face. A white girl, maybe eighteen.

  Aziz stepped over to her, held up his palms. “No no no, is okay. Americans, see?”

  She wrapped the scarf around her hand like a boxer taping his knuckles, grinned shyly at us. Not like the rest of her was modest anyway—barefoot in lowrise jeans and midriff-baring tank top. I made a wild guess that Aziz was in college, was enjoying the attention of American girls and culture. He leaned over, whispered in her ear. She leaned her cheek against his and made a kissing noise before settling back onto the couch and turning to the flat screen TV. Maury was on. More paternity tests.

  Aziz led the way into the kitchen. Again, the furniture and appliances were functional, cheap, clean. A few dishes in the sink, the faint smell of cinnamon. We sat at the table.

  Graham leaned towards the young man. “Why did Paul tell us to come to you if you can’t help? This is getting ridiculous.”

  “Hey, I can help. I can. It’s a surprise is all. I haven’t talked to him in a long time.”

  “What’s a long time?”

  “I don’t know. Three, four months?”

  I played along, a sarcastic bark while starting to stand. “Let’s get out of here. Let him play with his Barbie doll in there.”

  Graham nodded, and Aziz got a little louder.

  “Sit, please, sit. It’s fine, really. I can handle this.” He didn’t hide fear well. Good.

  I shook my head, fists on my hips, then sat, faked being over all this, the little boy playing American for the cause, but becoming all “corrupted”. Anything to redeem himself.

  “Did Paul say why he needed help?”

  Graham said, “The Americans were already on his trail. He didn’t pick up their scent until our friends provided them with bait. You’ve heard?”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “That was a bad mistake.”

  “I said I know.” Stony stare. He was on our side after all.

  I peeked over my shoulder towards the sounds from the living room. It sounded like she’d turned the volume down to listen in. Maury shouted, “You are not the father” and the audience whooped it up.

  So I got conspiratorial. “You know what this looks like, right? Your woman in there. You might have reasons to hold up our plans.”

  “She’s a friend. I’m supposed to be a part of the culture.”

  “Looked like more than a friend.”

  “That’s none of your business.” Then he said something in Arabic, slowly, playfully, in my face. It seemed to satisfy him. So Graham grabbed him by the scalp and yanked him half a foot off the chair.

  “Is that smart, what you just did? Is it smart to think you can play both sides and get away with it? We’ve got to clean up a mess that shouldn’t have been spilled, and we’ve also got to think about why it was spilled in the first place. If you aren’t the man we’re supposed to talk to, then point us the right way. Maybe we’ll keep our mouths shut about you know who in there.”

  The volume on the TV went back up. Aziz was breathing through clenched teeth, eyes on Graham until the sheriff let him go.

  The girl called out, “Is everything okay? You want some Bacardi and Cokes?”

  “It’s fine! Don’t bother us.” Aziz seemed more embarrassed by her than by Graham’s rough treatment. To us, he said, “It’s very hard sometimes. They…they just throw themselves on you. The clothes they wear. It’s very hard.”

  I played with the salt shaker, spinning it in the air, catching it, salt grains flying across the table. “Don’t tell us. We’re Americans. We’re just in it for the money.”

  He thought about that for another minute, looked confused. “Then maybe you would like that drink after all.”

  I smiled. “Sorry, no rum for me. I only drink the blood of Christ.”

  Aziz turned to me, eyebrows crunched together, but whatever he wanted to say faded before he opened his mouth, his gaze rising to my swollen eye. “What happened to you, anyway?”

  Graham cleared his throat, sai
d, “We don’t have much time.”

  “Did Paul tell you exactly who I should ask?” Aziz sounded confused.

  Actually, Paul had told us. The notes contained a chart, a hierarchy. Aziz was the bottom. He was the least important and therefore would’ve been the last to find out that Asimov was already dead. The only reason to come to him first was to get the new clearances that were surely in place now since Paul had written his notes.

  Graham shrugged, made an act of it. “Guess we’re on a ‘need to know’ basis. What do you think?”

  Aziz thought it over. Checked his watch. I did too. We’d been there fifteen minutes. Maybe too long, probably not long enough. But every minute wasted there was a chance we’d get nailed for this. Graham’s wife already thought he was having an affair after she called Layla and discovered there was no prisoner transfer. The department had called him at least a dozen times, left messages. Rome had left seven for me, all of them loud and full of “assclown” and “lunatic” and threats of charges I’d never heard of before—”conspiracy to inhibit a government investigation via treason through mental incapacitation”—so I knew he was making shit up. He’d called Drew’s mother, too, and was threatening to take her into custody.

  Drew’s reaction: “Mom’s the toughest bitch I know. She’ll be fine.”

  We’d been planning on Aziz’s hesitation. That so I could say, “Listen, let’s skip the hoops and go right the source. Forget the phone. Come with us.”

  Another glance at his watch. “Now?”

  “You got other plans? Is Dr. Phil on after Maury?”

  For a moment I wondered if we’d bungled the research, got the Muslim “call to prayer” times wrong. Five times a day. Maybe our watches were slow. Again, we thought we could force him into quicker action if the pressure was on. It would either work or backfire. Coin flip. That was all we had on such short notice.

  Aziz finally nodded. “Okay. Let me get a jacket.”

  He stood and we followed. The girl asked where he was going.