Night Songs

by Penny Mickelbury

  “Have I done something wrong?” She was so angry she barely spoke above a whisper and she had to fight to get the words out.

  “You do everything right, Maglione. Too right sometimes, and that can be a problem, especially in an election year.”

  “I never would have believed that you, of all people, would let politics dictate your decisions.” She was drained of anger, but could not have named all the emotions she felt, though confused would have been near the top of the list.

  “The mayor will have a hard enough time getting re-elected without the Daniel Boone killings, and I can’t keep a lid on it if Eddie Davis is talking about it at report every week.” He was talking even faster than usual, the words tumbling from his mouth like shells from an automatic weapon. “I want this case worked, Maglione, but I want it worked off the books.”

  “So now we’re cowboy cops?” She used the department slang for those specialty units that reported directly to the Office of the Chief. She knew of three such units: immigration, drugs, and gang and violence task forces. It was rumored that there were others but since they answered only to the Chief, only he knew for sure. The up side to being a cowboy unit was that she’d have access to every conceivable resource—manpower and hardware and budgetary. The down side was that the specialty task forces were resented by the regular units that had to get by with not enough of anything.

  “Does Inspector Davis know?” She realized in that instant how much she would miss him, and she was sorry for what she knew would be perceived as some failure on his part. Politics begets more of the same, and since politics dictated the chief’s action, politics would govern the speculation about the reasons for it, and Inspector Eddie Davis would be perceived the loser and she would be perceived the winner, since cowboy cops were perceived as the elite.

  “He knows,” the Chief said briefly, and she knew that it had not been a pleasant conversation.

  She tried to think of something to say but could not. He had, it seemed, altered the nature of their twenty-year relationship in a matter of moments. She was almost tempted to salute him. As she was imagining how he’d react to that, he took her off the hook.

  “What are you doing about the goddamn Nazis? I sure as hell don’t want anything to happen to that old lady.”

  “I planted the newspaper story.”

  “Good for you, Maglione!” A wide grin cracked his face and he seemed to raise several inches on his toes. “That’s how the game’s played. You’re learning.”

  “I thought so, Chief. I thought so.” And she left to go consider life as a cowboy cop, stopping on the way to see if Inspector Davis was still in his office, relieved to find that he was not, because she didn’t know what to say to him. So much had changed in so brief a time.

  She walked the three flights down to her own office because she didn’t want to encounter anyone in the elevator. And when she opened her door, she was almost surprised to find that things were still the same as she’d left them. The familiarity of the place restored some of her equilibrium. She took off her jacket and draped it neatly on the hanger behind the door. She crossed to her desk, dropped heavily into the chair and sighed loudly.

  Her thoughts were all over the place so she switched on the computer and called up the statistical analysis she was preparing. Maybe if she could work she could quiet the doubts that were buzzing about her like a swarm of angry hornets. A great lump of uneasiness lay heavily within her and she struggled to define it. It was more than disappointment in the Chief’s politicization of her mission. She didn’t like politics but she understood that she lived in a political world and accepted that. The Chief was a political appointee and so, by extension, was she. When she objectively viewed the benefits of heading up a cowboy unit, it could only make her look good, especially if she made a collar. So what was the source of the sick feeling in her gut?

  She looked from the ringing phone, to the clock that told her it was nine o’clock, and back to the phone, and wondered if she had a date with Mimi that she’d forgotten. Otherwise, who the hell could be calling her at work so late? She picked up the phone.

  “Lieutenant Maglione.”

  “This is Tyler Carson, Lieutenant. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother, Mr. Carson, though I should think you’d have better things to do with your time.”

  “Better than spending most of the waking hours of the most productive years of my life working fourteen hour days? Whatever would make you think that, Lieutenant.”

  She laughed out loud. She’d only met him once, but she remembered that Mimi described him as alternating between boringly normal and normally boring. His saving grace, according to Mimi, was that he was the best editor in the business.

  “Thanks for the levity, Mr. Carson. I needed that. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me whether you sicced the B-MOG on the Nazis ‘cause if you did, you have my heightened respect and my undying gratitude. It’s a hell of a good story.”

  Gianna was rendered speechless, and it took so long for his words to take the shape of rational thought in her brain that he misunderstood her silence.

  “Ah, listen, Lieutenant...ah, I’m sorry if I...”

  “Did I do what?” She almost raised her voice at him.

  He hurriedly explained that he’d just received an irate and almost threatening phone call from the attorney for the neo-Nazi group that paid nocturnal visits to Sophie Gwertzman, complaining that his clients—the guys playing concentration camp music outside the old woman’s house—had just had their Constitutional rights violated members of the B-MOG.

  “The B-MOG.” She made it a statement, not a question, but he responded as if it had been.

  “The Black Men On Guard, the guys who wear black jeans, black T-shirts, black combat boots and control access and entry to—”

  “I know who they are. They did what?”

  “They caused the Nazis to tuck tail and run.”

  “This early in the evening? I thought they only played their dirty tricks in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “They’ve been varying their times since we did the story, and keeping well within the noise ordinance. Did you see it, by the way? The story?”

  “I saw it, and I expected some kind of fallout, but not this. Not this.” She had anticipated that the Nazi group would respond or retaliate in some way to the newspaper article, but she had not expected that another powerful and potentially dangerous organization would join the fray. “What exactly did they do? The MOGgers, I mean?”

  “It is my understanding that there were about ten of them. They surrounded the Nazis’ truck and ordered them to turn off the music, to leave the neighborhood, and not to return. When the Nazis did not obey, the MOGgers picked up their truck—”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gianna felt lightheaded.

  “You heard correctly: They picked up the truck—one of those little Toyota short beds as I understand it—and began to carry it down the street. At which point the Nazis agreed to leave voluntarily.”

  “Are they still there? The MOGgers, I mean?”

  “I’ve got a reporter on the way to the scene. I’ll let you know.” He hesitated for a brief moment. “Lieutenant?”

  “Mr. Carson, you’ve just told me everything I know about this situation,” she answered his question before he asked. But I intend to find out a lot more, she told herself as she thanked him and hung up the phone with one hand and reached across her desk for the Rolodex with the other.

  Black Men on Guard was not unknown to the Hate Crimes unit. There were those who believed it to be an organization that preached hate and advocated violence, much like the Nazis. As the result of an investigation two years ago, Gianna had learned quite a bit about the MOGgers, and had developed a cordial and mutually respectful relationship with Yusuf Shakur, the forty-eight-year-old head of the Southeast D.C.-based organization. A soft-spoken, humorous man, he always delighted in the fact that strangers and outsiders fou
nd that once they knew him, they actually liked him, for his exterior demeanor and his past reputation would suggest otherwise. Shakur was large, powerfully built, ominous looking man who, in the early 1960’s, was a devout follower of Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam and then, after the Muslim leader’s assassination, a vociferous member of the Black Panther Party. Like many Panthers and Muslims, Shakur had spent time in prison, and rather than seek to conceal this fact of his past, he wore it like a badge of honor: it validated him in the eyes of the young men he recruited for his organization. And Yusuf Shakur had never retracted the twenty-five-year-old pro-violence and anti-Semitic statements he made as a young firebrand, statements that placed his name in the company of the well-known activists of the day.

  Shakur had organized Black Men On Guard in the mid-1980’s specifically to reclaim Washington’s inner city neighborhoods from drug dealers and users. From the densely populated housing projects of Southeast D.C., across the Anacostia River, B-MOG, as it quickly became known, grew and spread so that Yusuf Shakur now headed an organization that touched every neighborhood in every part of the city, and that was lauded and funded by churches and civic groups and, finally, grudgingly accepted by politicians for accomplishing what the police had been unable to: wherever members of B-MOG positioned themselves, drug dealers had no wish to be, for MOGgers did not hesitate to use threats of violence, and actual violence when threats failed, to convince gang members and dealers to vacate turf MOGgers claimed as theirs. But there could be no disputing the enmity that continued to exist between MOGgers, many of whom were Muslims, and Jews. So why were Black Men On Guard tonight guarding the home of an old Jewish woman?

  “It’s not unusual, Lieutenant. The presence of B-MOG is frequently a deterrent to crime.”

  “Yes, I know. But let’s face it, we’re not talking about drug dealers and gang-bangers here.”

  “I know that, Lieutenant,” he replied with a touch of pique. “We’re dealing with the only kind of scum that could be lower than dealers and bangers. Besides, we never refuse a request for help from citizens.”

  “Are you telling me that you were specifically invited to Sophie Gwertzman’s house?”

  “How and why else would we know to be there, Lieutenant?”

  “Does it bother you that the woman you’re protecting is Jewish?”

  “It bothers me, Lieutenant, that the woman is the helpless victim of vicious cowards for the second time in her life.” His voice had become tight and cold.

  Gianna could hear that Shakur was losing patience with her but she had just one more question which to which she was certain she knew the answer but which she had to ask. “Mr. Shakur, are you acquainted with Cassandra Ali?”

  “But of course, Lieutenant. I’d have thought that much was obvious,” Shakur said with a deep laugh.

  She hung up, swiveled around in her chair to face the window, and looked down on a deserted Judiciary Square. It looked sad, lonely, and a bit shabby without the many hundreds of people—cops and criminals, judges and lawyers, secretaries, clerks, reporters, jurors, crime victims, the curious—who daily gave meaning to the cluster of buildings that comprised the square: The police department, the old and new Superior Court buildings, the Public Defenders’ and U.S. Attorneys’ buildings. She was one of those people, part of the thing called the Criminal Justice System. She was one of the good guys. Or once was. Now she was a cowboy. And she realized suddenly, acutely, what she didn’t like about the situation: she was completely vulnerable. Out on a limb without benefit of a safety net. Inspector Davis would no longer approve or disapprove of her plans and actions. There was nobody to check in with or answer to. If she got lucky and broke the case, good for her. If she didn’t, she shouldered the blame alone. Not that she minded carrying her own weight. But she did mind not having the advantage of Eddie Davis’s experience and insight. She’d like, for example, to hear his views on Black Men On Guard protecting an elderly Jewish woman from a bunch of neo-Nazis. It was one of the most improbable scenarios she could imagine. And Tyler Carson was right. It would make one hell of a good story.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mimi was ambivalent about the virtues of sidewalk cafes. Or, more accurately, she was ambivalent about the virtues of sidewalk cafes in places like New York and Washington. A boulangerie in Paris or a trattoria in Rome were one thing. The feast for her eyes and her spirit was worth whatever amount of carbon monoxide she might ingest with her vin rouge or bruscetta e mozzarella. Granted, carbon monoxide was just as deadly in the French, Italian or English language, but she flat out refused to eat outside in New York City, and she wasn’t thrilled about it at DuPont Circle in Washington. But she was here anyway, waiting for Beverly and, later, for Gianna and for Sylvia, Bev’s most recent heart interest.

  She’d be happy to see Bev. They were rebuilding their friendship after a stormy breakup two years ago that had left Bev all but unable to be anything more than barely polite to Mimi. And when Mimi had finally moved her ego far enough out of the way to see the truth, she’d had to admit that Beverly’s anger was justified. Mimi had been a disaster as a lover, but she loved Beverly deeply, and wanted her friendship. It had helped that Gianna and Beverly were becoming good friends at the same time that Gianna and Mimi were becoming lovers. Gianna was the bridge they needed, the impartial and nonjudgmental arbiter. At the time, Gianna didn’t know either of them well enough to have an opinion about who’d done what to whom, so she either steered clear of them altogether when there was tension, or she pushed and prodded until one or the other relinquished stubbornness. Now Mimi and Bev were close enough again that Bev had something really important to share with her. So, here Mimi was, breathing fumes and sweating on Seventeenth Street.

  Fortunately, there’d been a break in the monster heat wave and for the end of July it was actually quite pleasant at about eighty degrees. She’d arrived a little early because she’d foregone her usual Saturday morning run through Rock Creek Park and instead cut her grass and washed her car and made her weekly calls to her relatives in California. She’d learned years ago that the best way not to spend an hour on the telephone with her Aunt Louise was to call her before she’d had her second cup of coffee. Eleven a.m. in D.C. was eight a.m. in L.A. and Aunt Lou was finishing her first cup of coffee. She’d pass the phone to Uncle Walter, who hated talking on the phone. He always asked how she was, how Freddy was, whether they were married yet, how her job was, and said good-bye. Aunt Flo and Uncle Jimmy were always en route to the tennis court, so that conversation was always brief. Her cousin Amanda was always asleep and always reminded her of the three-hour time difference. Her cousin Jeff was never at home so she always left a message on his machine. She was smugly satisfied when she made her final call of the morning, to her father.

  She looked up from reading the menu to see Beverly walking toward her. The woman, quite simply, was stunning. She wore a white skirt of some clingy fabric that seemed delighted to be wrapped around her hips and legs, and a white sleeveless T-shirt. She was the color of dark chocolate with hints of bronze, long dreadlocks held in place by one of the many pieces of African print material she kept for that purpose. She was long and lean (except for a generous endowment of bust and hip) and walked with her head in the sky and Mimi felt the same reaction as the first time she saw her: what an incredible woman!

  They embraced and Mimi held her for a long moment, hoping Bev felt the love she couldn’t find the words to express.

  “You just get more beautiful,” Mimi said when they’d seated themselves.

  “Just what I was thinking about you,” Bev said with a grin. “Looks like Gianna agrees with you.”

  “No, actually, I agree with her. Or else.” Bev laughed at the joke and Mimi knew they’d cleared a major hurdle. Relief settled around them warm as the humidity of the summer afternoon air, and they ordered salsa and chips and Dos Equuis.

  “So what is it you want to tell me?” Mimi prodded. “You sounded so excited on the pho
ne. Could it be love?” she teased.

  “Could be,” Bev said with a shadow of a smile, “but that’s not what I want to tell you.” She reached into the brightly colored string bag she’d hung on the back of her chair and extracted a pamphlet, which she offered to Mimi.

  “Midtown Psychotherapy Associates,” Mimi read out loud in a puzzled tone. “Referrals accepted from Educational, Juvenile Justice, and Social Service agencies.” Mimi’s look of puzzlement grew. “Bev, I don’t—”

  “Well, open it, silly thing, and read the inside.”

  Mimi scowled but did as ordered, continuing to read out loud: “Individual, group and family counseling...blah, blah, blah...Joyce Gray, M.D....Eugene Cooper, PhD....Beverly Connors, Licensed Clinical Social Worker!” Mimi finished with a whoop. “Now will you explain?” she asked with mock patience.

  “I’m leaving the school system. To be more precise, I’ve left. For the first time in my life, I won’t be going back to school in the fall.”

  Mimi was shocked and her mouth literally hung open. Beverly laughed at her.

  “Close your mouth. You look moronic.”

  “You love working with those children!”

  “I can’t do it any more, Mimi. Not the way it is now. I could handle poverty and ignorance and even lack of parental interest. And I managed to deal with the drugs. But the violence. I can’t handle the violence. Four teachers were assaulted last year, Mimi, one by a nine-year-old. We’ve had guns and knives confiscated, along with vials of crack and cocaine. We now have new guidelines about how to touch children—”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Mimi didn’t know where to direct the anger she was feeling so she growled at Bev.

  “Exactly what I said.” Bev continued in a cold, brittle tone that sounded as if she were reading from an instruction manual. “We can no longer hold and comfort them for fear of being accused of abuse if we touch them the wrong way, or if the child believes we did. We can no longer tend their wounds if they bloody themselves playing or fighting for fear of AIDS. If I think a child is being physically abused, I can call Social Services and have the child placed in their care immediately, but not if I suspect sexual abuse.” Bev’s shoulders sagged in sadness and all Mimi’s anger drained away.