Know Your Place

by Shelly Ellis

  “I knew you were a selfish motherfucka, but I never took you for being a petty bitch-ass nigga too.”

  “Oh, I’m a bitch-ass nigga now?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I’m a bitch-ass nigga?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “Fuck you, motherfucka!”

  “Fuck you too!”

  Derrick clenched his fists on the scarred tabletop. He looked like he wanted to punch Ricky in the face and probably would’ve done it if he’d had enough alcohol in him. In some ways, Ricky wanted his boy to hit him, then he could swing back at him. They could start brawling right here in Ray’s, turning over tables, breaking glasses, and bashing Ray’s dust-covered jukebox that only played 80s and 90s hits. If they fought, Ricky could finally unleash all the anger and sense of helplessness he’d felt for the past three and a half months. He would finally have an outlet.

  But Derrick didn’t take a swing. His face abruptly softened. He relaxed his clenched hands.

  “Shit. I’m sorry, man.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that. I didn’t mean that shit about Simone.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay, I meant it. But not in the way I said it. And you’re right. I was being selfish . . . I mean, I am being selfish. I do make it about me a lot of times and I don’t mean to do that. I realize you’ve been going through shit too, and your shit is a lot bigger than what I’m going through. I know you’re worried about your business and your criminal charge, and with Simone going M.I.A., I know it’s—”

  Ricky let out another cynical laugh and finished off his drink. He slammed the shot glass back on the table, giving a deranged grin as he did it, making his friend go silent. “Dee, believe it or not, that shit is the least of my concerns right now.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve got bigger issues, bruh.”

  Derrick frowned. “What bigger issues?”

  Ricky blew air out of his inflated cheeks and glanced around the bar. With the exception of Ray and one elderly man nursing a drink at the counter, he and Derrick were the only people in that joint. No one would hear or care about their conversation. So if he finally told Derrick the truth—all the gory details—he didn’t have to worry about it coming back to haunt him. Plus, he had kept his secret for so long, he was getting crushed under the weight of it. When he closed his eyes he still saw Tamika and her panicked, beseeching gaze as she twisted in Melvin’s arms. It might give him some relief to finally talk about all of it, to share the burden with someone else.

  “Before I start, I’m gonna need a refill,” he said, holding his glass in the air and making eye contact with Ray.

  Ray paused mid-conversation with the old-timer at the counter to nod. He then grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon whiskey, walked from behind the counter, and poured some into Ricky’s empty glass.

  “Thanks, Ray,” he murmured.

  “No problem,” Ray replied before tucking a toothpick into his mouth and walking back to the bar.

  “Okay, you’ve got your drink,” Derrick said, pointing to his glass. “What did you wanna tell me?

  Ricky raised the glass to his lips and took a drink. “I never told you everything that happened the night and the morning after the raids. I told you that I got arrested. That they took me into some little-ass room for questioning. But I didn’t tell you . . . I didn’t tell you how I got out of there.”

  “You said your lawyer got you out.”

  “He did.” Ricky nodded. “But only by working out a deal with the cops. They said they would reduce the charges against me if . . . if I helped them. If I became . . . if I became an informant.”

  Derrick’s eyes widened. He almost spit out his beer, but caught himself. “You’re not serious, right?” he asked, choking down his drink.

  “You think I’m joking? They want to know who Dolla’s suppliers are, who’s the next level up from him on the drug totem pole. They want me to find out, but so far, I haven’t found out shit—and I don’t know if I ever will. Meanwhile, I keep having to prove to Dolla that I’m still on his team, that I’ve got his back. He made me go to this girl’s house to find out some shit for him.” Ricky closed his eyes, once again trying to erase the memory of her and that day. “He told me we were only going there to talk to her, Dee. And dumb-ass me, I believed him. I believed him up until one of his men killed her.” Ricky opened his eyes again.

  “Shit, man.” Derrick grimaced. “I thought you had been kinda quiet lately but I had . . . I had no idea why. I never thought . . .” His words drifted off.

  “I told the cops what happened,” Ricky continued. “I told them he’s hunting down all the girls who used to work for him and picking them off one by one. I told them I saw one of the girls get taken out with my own eyes, and you know what those motherfuckas told me?” He took another drink and swallowed. “ ‘Not my problem.’ They said that wasn’t their fuckin’ problem so it wasn’t mine either. They said if those women wanted protection, they should’ve helped the prosecution so they could get police guards or some shit. They said I should focus on what I’m there for and not worry about those girls.” He shook his head. “I can’t do this shit anymore, Dee. All this lying, and now I have to just stand there, watching people get killed. This shit is gonna drive me crazy.”

  Derrick didn’t say anything. What could he say? There was no advice he could offer, no way he could tell Ricky how to get out of his situation short of Ricky telling the cops the deal was off and going to jail. But that was pretty much a death sentence. The cops would be sure to tell Dolla Dolla or his men what Ricky had done, how he had been double-crossing him all these months. It would be faster to put a bullet in his own head.

  Ricky finished his second glass and shoved it aside. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and put twenty dollars on the table. “Look, man, we should get going. We’re both just sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves. We’re worrying over shit that we have no control over. What’s done is done, right?”

  Derrick nodded solemnly. “What’s done is done.”

  * * *

  Ricky returned to his Mercedes five minutes later. He had a slight buzz but he wasn’t drunk. He planned when he got home to drink a lot more, until he blacked out and fell into empty dreams—the only place where he could find true solace. As he pulled on the door handle, his cell began to buzz. He ignored it, opened the door, and climbed onto the driver’s seat. As he put his key into the ignition, his phone buzzed again and he pulled it out of his pocket. He stared at the screen and cursed under his breath.

  Once again, it was a number he didn’t recognize. He wondered if it was the same person who had been calling him for months, breathing on the line, then hanging up.

  “Look,” he said, pressing the green button, “I’m not up to this shit tonight, so either finally fucking say something or stop calling me!”

  “H-hello?” a voice answered fearfully. It sounded like an elderly woman. “I’m sorry, but can I speak to Malcolm?”

  “Who the fuck is Malcolm?” Ricky shouted.

  So is that the reason he kept getting these damn calls? Because these people were trying to reach a guy named Malcolm?

  “I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong number,” she said. “I was trying to reach the young man who came a while back to Nadine Fuller’s home. He said he was there to deliver a package for a gift she’d ordered, but she wasn’t home. This was the number he gave me, but maybe I’m . . . I’m reading it wrong. I . . . I don’t have my reading glasses on.”

  “Ms. Sawyer?” he said, suddenly remembering the woman’s name. He recalled her now. She was Nadine Fuller’s neighbor, the randy old lady who lived next door.

  “Yes! That’s me. So . . . so is this Malcolm?” she asked.

  “Yeah . . . uh, yeah it is,” Ricky said, sitting upright in his seat. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was a little confused for a second. I was in a crowded restaurant, but I stepped out. I misheard yo
u, but I can hear you clearly now.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right, honey. I understand. I just called to tell you that I finally heard from Nadine. She came back yesterday to pack up her house and she gave me her address to send the rest of her things that she couldn’t take with her in the truck. About an hour after she pulled off, I remembered that you had come looking for her about a month ago. I thought, wouldn’t it be a wonderful surprise if you could bring Nadine her package. Do you have a pen so you can write down the address, honey?”

  Ricky blinked. After all this time, the trail leading to Simone, which had been cold for months, had finally gotten warm again. No, scratch that. The trail had gotten scorching hot. He quickly forgot about his depression, about his misgivings, and his sense of loss of control. He finally had a sense of purpose again.

  “Yes! Yes, ma’am. I have a pen,” he said, frantically reaching for his glove compartment. “Go ahead and give me the address.”

  Chapter 18

  Jamal

  Jamal knew he was a dead man walking. He had been for the past several days, but only he knew the truth.

  The worst part was he felt like he’d had his head stuck in the guillotine all this time, but he still didn’t know when the blade would fall. He didn’t know on what day he would grab a copy of The Washington Post or Washington Recorder and find a story about himself in the metro section. He sat down at his office desk each day, waiting for the moment when someone would send an email with a link to a tawdry blog post containing blurry pictures of himself snorting cocaine or having a threesome with AnnaLee and Star.

  But each day passed and then the next—and nothing happened. It had been almost a full week, but still there were no salacious news stories. No blog posts.

  So he waited. He tried to act normal. He went to meetings and met with constituents and council members. He took phone calls and wrote emails. He kept his distance from the mayor, who seemed to watch him like a hunter would his prey every time they crossed paths, which was more frequent than Jamal would have liked. Jamal wondered what was taking Mayor Johnson so long to do what he’d threatened to do. Why hadn’t he exposed him yet? Did the mayor enjoy torturing him, having Jamal endure one sleepless night after the next? Did he take some morbid pleasure in watching him squirm?

  Jamal awoke when his alarm clock sounded after yet another night filled with long hours of tossing and turning. He tiredly pushed himself up from his bed and staggered into the bathroom. When he turned on the overhead lights, he winced. He didn’t bother to glance at his reflection. He knew there would be bags under his eyes and his face would look almost gaunt with fatigue. He knew that he’d have the look of a man who was enduring hell and had no idea when he would finally be put out of his misery.

  Jamal took a shower, brushed his teeth, shaved, and emerged out of the bathroom about thirty minutes later. When he walked into his bedroom, he reached for the remote and turned on the morning news before slipping on a pair of boxer briefs and making his way to his closet to grab one of his suits—a single-breasted gray number he’d worn before. He tossed the suit onto his bed along with a silk tie and walked toward his dresser to find a shirt and a pair of socks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a picture flash on the television screen as he yanked open one of the dresser drawers. Jamal paused and turned slightly so that he could get a better view of his flat screen. When he did, his mouth fell open. His socks tumbled from his hand to the bedroom rug.

  On the screen was a smiling photo of Phillip Seymour from the Washington Recorder, the one that usually ran next to his byline in the newspaper. Below his photo was his name and the caption, “Murder Victim,” in stark white letters. Jamal rushed around his bed to grab the remote again and turn up the volume as a news anchor came on-screen.

  “The murder occurred soon after Mr. Seymour had arrived home last night, according to police. Neighbors who spoke with Channel 7 news said they heard shouting prior to the gun shots but did not see the assailant. Police are investigating the homicide but still have no leads as to who could have committed the crime.”

  Then a montage of other photos of Phillip scrolled on-screen. One of him in a T-shirt, wearing a whistle around his neck while standing next to a young boy in a soccer uniform. One of him with his arms thrown around the shoulders of two other men while he smiled almost drunkenly at the camera while wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. One of him kneeling next to a slobbering Saint Bernard.

  Jamal struggled to remember if Phillip ever mentioned if he was married. Had he worn a wedding ring? Did he have kids?

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

  The anchor appeared on-screen again. His dark face went solemn.

  “We at Channel 7, as fellow journalists and colleagues of Mr. Seymour’s, would like to offer our sincere condolences to his family and friends. He will be greatly missed.”

  Jamal fell back onto the mattress, still staring dumbly at the flat-screen TV even as the broadcast gave way to a booming car commercial. He could feel himself going numb.

  He sat on the edge of his bed for several minutes, unable to move or articulate a single word.

  * * *

  When Jamal arrived at the Wilson Building, he didn’t stop for coffee or go to his office. Instead, he went straight down the hall to Mayor Johnson’s suite.

  “Umm, excuse me, Mr. Lighty,” Johnson’s secretary, Gladys, called to him as he stormed past her desk. “Excuse me, Mr. Lighty, but Mr. Johnson is taking an important call right now. You’ll have to—”

  “I don’t give a shit!” he called over his shoulder.

  He didn’t look back at her, but he could hear her audibly gasp in response. He didn’t care if he’d just upset her delicate sensibilities, nor did he give a damn that he was interrupting the mayor’s little phone call; he had to talk to him right now.

  He turned the knob, shoved open the office door, and found the mayor sitting with his back to the door. The mayor was laughing on the phone and gazing out his office window at the busy city street below. When he heard the door fly open then slam shut, he slowly turned around and faced Jamal.

  “Get off the phone,” Jamal ordered.

  “I really don’t know if that would work with the schedule we’ve been given,” Johnson said into his headset, still smiling and keeping a watchful eye on Jamal as he spoke. “A timeline like that would be very aggressive.”

  “I said,” Jamal whispered as he drew closer to the desk, “get off the damn phone. Do it, or I will call the cops, right now!”

  “Hey, Bill,” Johnson said to whoever was on the other end of the phone line, “can I call you back? Something just popped up . . . No. Nothing serious . . . Give me fifteen minutes . . . Yep! I certainly will . . . Talk to you soon.”

  He then lowered the headset from his ear and put it back in its cradle. He leaned back in his leather chair, interlocked his fingers, and cocked an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

  “Can you help me? Can you fucking help me?” Jamal almost squeaked, cringing even as he repeated the words. He braced his hands on the edge of Johnson’s desk and glared down at him. “You killed him, you son of a bitch! You killed him!”

  “Killed who? You’re acting hysterical, Jamal. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the older man said, feigning innocence.

  “Stop lying! You know exactly who and what I’m talking about, and you know what you did. I told you . . . I told you to leave him out of it! I told you to do whatever you wanted with those pictures of me. That’s what I said! Why . . . why would you have him killed anyway?” Jamal asked desperately.

  The mayor stayed silent for several seconds. Finally, he shrugged. “Because you called my bluff.”

  “What?”

  “I said, you called my bluff.” The mayor rolled his eyes heavenward. “There were never any pictures, Jamal. I just wanted to make you think I had them so you’d have more of a motive to cover your own ass.”

  “You were bluffing?” Jamal said as the blood
drained from his head.

  “Yes, and I’m usually very good at bluffing and playing poker, in general. I can figure out what cards my opponent likely holds based on certain tells. So many people are so easy to read and unaware of it, but I misjudged you, Jamal. You seemed like an insecure, shallow, self-aggrandizing young man who would rather die than have his public image tainted, let alone destroyed. I thought you would try even harder to keep that reporter quiet if I made that threat about releasing those photos. But instead, you did the opposite. You were willing to walk away . . . no, you were willing to fall on your own sword in order to save someone else.” He tilted his head. “You’re more noble than I thought.”

  Jamal wished there was a chair behind him. He felt as if he might faint, like his knees might buckle underneath him, so he continued to grip the mayor’s desk instead.

  “It’s unfortunate that you were unable to convince your friend to let go of his little story. This is not something I was eager to pursue, Jamal. I take these matters very seriously.”

  “Fuck you!” Jamal barked. “Fuck you, you psychopath.”

  The mayor grumbled loudly. “I understand that you’re angry, and that’s something you’ll have to work through. I would be angry too, if I brought a situation like this upon myself and those around me. But eventually, you will have to move on and see the wisdom in what I did. It’s one of those hard decisions that a leader must make.”

  “You didn’t have to do it! You could’ve spared him, and now . . . and now . . .” Jamal said, at a loss for words.

  “I told you in the beginning that this is not a game. Mr. Seymour found that out the hard way.”

  “I quit,” Jamal choked, feeling tears of frustration and sorrow well in his eyes. “I quit. And I’m going to the police. I’m going to tell them you’re behind this. I’m gonna tell them ev—”