CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The eastside of Indianapolis suffered a slow, debilitating death. An early casualty, some say a reason, was the Camlann Housing Project. The project hadn't changed much: poverty reservations in practice. The police called it three-story run-ups, since no one was fool enough to walk if they could help it. Project was the right word for it: it was always a project in progress. There was always talk about the city giving it a face lift, much like they did the now-trendier art district of the downtown streets. Talk, anyway. Everyone also knew that the talk would never amount to much. At best, the complex would get a new coat of paint, something far short of a true refurbishing, but enough for people to forget and move along, abandoning its residents.
Mulysa rolled a tight one and
sparked it up, a party of one. Breaking Iz off capped his night.
Her over-muscled dyke friend would need handling, but if he were
any judge of people, for the right price, she'd come around. Enough
Benjamins brought the light of reason. Not that it mattered. When
he got his head up like this, his thoughts drifted to dark places.
Maybe it was time to put that bitch in her place. Use one bitch to
check another. He brushed the hilt of his dagger. The image of him
stabbing her in her breast and drinking blood from her nipple
hardened him. Some real gangsta shit that would have people
whispering his name in sheer terror. Yeah, he liked how that
played.
He could smash a box of cookies
about then.
Break-ins were the equivalent of
nightly sport, robberies an experiment in ghetto math – taking
nothing from nothing. Fights broke out regularly over the most
trivial matters, mostly just to remind each other that they were
still alive, usually an affront to one's pride since reputation was
all that one truly owned here. Rowdy teens tried to be heard over
the familiar hip hop drone of beats and attitude that passed for
music; their cars and motorcycles peeling through the parking lots
as they showed out for their friends. Many a night Mulysa
fantasized about running piano wire across the street… about neck
high. It wasn't the cracked dry wall or the fallen-off fixtures
that he remembered most. It was having to shake out his sheets
before he went to bed to clear them of cockroaches. He hated their
midnight scurrying.
They scurried like over-muscled
dykes sneaking up on him in the night. Tristan slipped in
soundlessly, a wraith fully intent to flense Mulysa where he
reclined. But to attack from behind without him knowing or
prepared, that wasn't enough. That wasn't honorable. It was
something he would do.
"I know you there." Mulysa didn't
turn around. "It took you long enough to get here."
"We got some business to
discuss."
Tristan's blades curved around
each fist. Her grip tightened and loosened in steady rhythm, almost
matching her heartbeat. She slackened her grip as if resolved to a
new course of action, twirled them about her fingers in a
gunslinger's flourish, and sheathed them.
Mulysa, for his part, didn't
lower his bottom bitch. The time to discuss business was passed.
Maybe it was time to test this overly muscled bitch after all. Put
her in her place to make her see reason. Save him the
Benjamins.
"This about your
girlfriend?"
Goaded by the memory of Iz curled
up on the floor, eyes slung back, with barely a trace of
recognition in her eyes, the woman she loved buried underneath
skeins of her high, her fallenness, her desires, and her crushed
hope, Tristan charged after him. Mulysa leapt from the couch and
lunged at her. She deflected the blow and snuck him in the kidneys.
The two of them toppled over the couch.
Mulysa couldn't get leverage,
kept off-balance by Tristan's shifting attack. He attempted a broad
slash which she easily dodged and pinned his blade hand, smashing
it against the floorboards, fingers dug into his wrist, until he
released it. He raised his knee into her side, a glancing blow, but
it knocked her enough to allow him to scrabble from under her. She
fell heavily onto her back.
Scrambling to his feet, they
circled each other in the dim light. The room was cramped and its
shadows pressed in close from the odd outcroppings of the layout.
Mulysa feinted with his knife, now ready, hoping to draw her into
another impulsive mistake. Tristan smirked, thinking him a man
hiding behind his penis, one which was smaller than he realized.
The crunch of trash underfoot broke the tense silence. Mulysa might
have had the superior muscle, but his was built by lifting weights
and punching bags which couldn't hit back. Tristan's muscle had
been formed strictly by hard living, a life of constant battle for
each breath she took. If Mulysa had realized that, he was certain
that with his bitch in hand, he was more than her superior. They
continued to revolve around each other in their delicate dance when
Tristan slipped on a plastic bag. She flailed her arms to recover
her balance, but Mulysa seized the opportunity to pounce on her
with a killing stroke. She parried the blow as best she could,
twisting her body out of the blade's trajectory, but the tip of the
blade still pierced her side. Mulysa moved faster than she
expected. He turned around with a high elbow to her jaw. They
tussled through the room, with only the sounds of the grunts of
absorbed punches heard. Bodies still entwined, neither getting an
upper hand on the other, they slammed into the wall.
Still in close quarters, blood
seeping from her wound, Tristan grappled for his blade hand once
more. Her teeth ground against each other in a mad smile as she
exerted the last of her strength into squeezing his wrist.
Something popped in her grasp and the blade fell. Mulysa stifled a
cry. Tristan head-butted him, which sent him to the floor. She
bounded on top of him, grabbing for anything within reach. Handfuls
of donut wrappers and moldy paper, and crammed them into Mulysa's
mouth. She pressed a wadded up back of McDonald's into his face,
blindly lashing out at him.
Heavy thuds at the door halted
them.
"Police!" a voice
cried.
Mulysa let go first only enough
to check Tristan's reaction. If she flexed, they'd be right back
fighting. But Tristan didn't move and allowed Mulysa to back away a
few steps. He smoothed out his clothes, lip bleeding, fumed, trying
to catch his breath.
"Don't make me go all P Diddy on
you, nukka. Send you to Haughville and have you fetch me some
breast milk from a Korean woman to wash down some donuts from
Long's."
"This shit ain't over." Tristan
turned toward the window. "Deuces."
The Martindale-Brightwood neighborhood had
been designated a sensitive area. Riots broke out a few years back,
over what no one quite remembered. However, the Black Panthers were
active here, as was the Nation of Islam, and various church
leaders. Each with good intentions, to help those forgotten by the
system, give voice to those whose cries went unheard. To draw
attention to the plight of their brothers and sisters. Each out to
save their community… and in the process, either make names for
themselves or prove their continuing relevance. King, Dred, and
Rellik gathered at Good Hope. News of Colvin's effrontery traveled
the vine quickly. A crisis was inevitable. Though neither Dred nor
Rellik signed on with King, they were curious to see how he'd
manage to lead them. It was his test. They knew they couldn't send
in their usual troops. Street-level soldiers were fine if Colvin
was a street knucklehead encroaching on territory or this was a
case of some other day-in-the-life bullshit. Once things got…
supernatural, only a few were qualified. Or experienced enough.
Judging from Rok's reaction to what was going on, his face a mix of
skepticism and trepidation, they'd be lost out there on their own.
Merle ushered Dred and Rellik inside, but Baylon lingered back,
catching Dred's attention. King studied the poor wretch. He
remembered his confident, flexing gait, built like a human
Rottweiler with half-closed eyes as if bored. Not this thinned,
ashy creature whose eyes were cratered within wrinkles.
"What happened to you, man?" King
asked.
"After Michelle, you left me. Cut
me out of your life." Baylon still felt things. He always had. His
momma always said that was his problem: he felt things too deeply.
It was why she believed he wasn't cut out for this here game. Every
time he saw King, he wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness
for fucking everything up. Nothing was the same: not the crew, not
the block, not the family, not him. Everything got so disconnected.
Everyone had to go their own way if only to not be reminded of what
had been. Or what could have been. "It was too much."
"We were like
brothers."
"That's why it hurt me so
deep."
"You should've said
that."
"I was a different man
then."
"Look at you now. Out to save the
whole hood. Everyone's redeemable, right?"
"Right."
"Even me?"
"Even… you. But you can't just
say 'I'm sorry' as if that's all there is to it. You've got to
change your ways. Prove that you've changed. Make up for some of
the hurts you've caused. You may not make things right, but it's a
start."
"What about us?"
"I done told you, too much time's
passed. What we were…"
"Aces."
"We won't be again. Different
time. Different place. Different man."
"But, if I could show I've
changed…"
"We'll see. One step at a time."
King didn't want to extinguish all hope, especially when his tenor
reeked of wanting things… the way they used to be.
Ambition was the headiest of
drugs. In its name, Dred was ready to sacrifice them – Baylon,
Griff, Night, and Rellik – to get their power and reign supreme in
the Egbo Society. Had no problem leaving Baylon to take the fall
for it all. From there, with the power and mantle of authority, he
would demand a place among the dons. Craddock. Bedivere. Howell.
Fat old men whose time had passed. The dons collected tribute far
removed from the street. He would be the young blood, the vision,
necessary to take them to the next level.
Rellik studied Dred and thought
about Wayne. In them he saw his future and alternate present. In
Dred, he knew all the life would offer him. His days would be no
more than chasing dollars, fending off takeovers, living life on a
razor edge which threatened to slit his throat if he fell wrong.
The life of the gun: putting down enemies only to have new ones
rise up. It never ended and the thought exhausted him.
On the other hand, Wayne's was a
life he couldn't imagine having. One equally fraught with peril,
but buoyed by friendship. Loyalty. Trust. Life. Concepts all too
alien to his reality. Rellik wanted to die. More like he was ready
for it. He all but said goodbye to Wayne the last time they
talked.
"You tippin'
out?" Wayne asked. The summit conversation still heavy on his mind.
"I'm done,
Wayne," Rellik said. "Ain't got the heart for it
no more."
"Words like
that could get you killed out here."
"I got it
handled."
"Where you
going to go?" Wayne grabbed his arm lightly. "I got a couch."
"Looking out
for your big brother? I got a place in mind. It's OK." He hugged Wayne then broke free.
Tired
of the killing, tired of the death, tired of the senselessness,
Rellik knew he'd never be free of this life because he was in it
too deep. No one would just let him out. Those under him would take
him out to replace him. Those above him couldn't just let him out
as a free agent. He knew too much, knew where too many bodies were
buried. Ride or die or not, Rellik wouldn't be trusted. He didn't
want to die crying for his mama like most men did in the end. He
just wanted to go home.
"Colvin done lost his Goddamned
mind," Rellik shouted.
"So it's begun," Merle
said.
"What do we know about him?" King
asked.
"He one of them Baltimore
niggas," Dred said.
"He East Coast?" King
asked.
"Naw, Baltimore Avenue. East
side. Three-O Baltimore, forty-second and Post, tenth Street Dime
Life. You know how they run."
"Just as soon split your wig as
say please," Rellik said.
"Happy trappin' and gun
slappin'," Merle said.
"Can't you do something about
him?" Rellik asked.
His irritation at Merle reminded
King of Wayne. Only then did he realize that he was about to mount
a campaign and none of his most trusted people were with him. Wayne
was tied up with Outreach Inc. who knew where Lott and Lady G were.
Even Percy was nowhere to be found. Only Merle stood by him. The
empty seats at the table mocked him. King bridged his fingers in
front of him as Dred and Rellik spoke. He'd been so tired lately,
so off his game, his mind harried and soft. He didn't know Rellik
and certainly didn't trust Dred. However, matters of mutual
self-interest bound them to him.
"He's right. Colvin's doing what
he loves. There's no talking to him," Dred pushed. King felt like
he was leading him. There was always the trap of the precipice with
his words.
"What you fittin' to do? Make a
citizen's arrest?" Rellik asked.
"We stop him." King didn't know
what he meant, what all he was willing to do. He had to walk
lightly between being a snitch and needing police involvement. But
Merle was right, Colvin was above their pay grade. It was the same
reason they would have to face Colvin themselves, not send in their
soldiers.
Dred pounced on the opening.
"King's right. We aren't peaceable people. We fight for it. We take
it. It's over."
"You hood as fuck, man," Rellik
said. "That's your answer to everything."
"What say you, O Prince of Nap?"
Dred said with a hint of contempt.
"Careful now," Merle said, though
to King or to Dred no one was sure.
"Heavy be the head," Dred said, a
serpent whispering into King's ear. "Don't grasp after power if you
aren't prepared to wield it."
Rising from his seat, King
released the magazine of his Caliburn. Pressing against the spring,
he thumbed the top shell then palmed the magazine back into the
grip. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, the grip turned
rightward. Easily grasped by his right hand, it felt as natural in
his dip as a sword in its scabbard. "Let's go."
"That's my young dude." Dred
glanced back to King. "Time to tool up, son."
Smoke damaged the brick of the building
façade from a fire over a decade ago. The cramped alcove, dark from
the broken lights, but not black like the steep stairwells of the
Phoenix Apartments, smelled of piss and neglect.
On the tip of Omarosa, they had
run Rondell Cheldric, aka "Mulysa", through the Bureau of Criminal
Identification. His sheet ran longer than anything he had
presumably read, a litany of assaults, robberies, suspected in
three rape cases – he even did a bid on a manslaughter – Mulysa was
a keg of dynamite searching for an excuse to blow.
Huddled in the entranceway, the
overhang was large enough to hold Lee and Cantrell and the first of
the SWAT officers who held the breaching ram. Lee pressed his ear
against the door, listening for any sound. Nothing. Cantrell
flanked him. His case, his suspect, his bust, Lee would take the
door, he told them plainly, not a man to be trifled with when it
came to taking doors. Playtime stopped and everyone became strict
professionals because taking doors was ten seconds of life or
death. Octavia arrived on scene to supervise the
take-down.
"Police!" he shouted and his
fists thudded against the door. Lee took a deep breath. With his
gun aimed at the floor in his right hand, Lee raised his left to
count things down. Backing away from the door, they all gave head
nods to signal that they were ready.
Three.
Two.
One.
The SWAT officer swung the ram.
The door jambs splintered as his momentum carried him through. The
men fanned in, eyes darting about. "Police!"
Taking one step into the foyer,
Lee tried to determine if anyone was in the house. Flashlight beams
cut through the darkness, criss-crossing like sabers. Omarosa said
this Mulysa character stayed here. At times there were other
squatters, but Mulysa was all about playing well with others and
thus was probably alone by now. He had a way of creating messes
that came back on him. The commotion continued as the word "Police"
was shouted in the back rooms followed by the response "Clear!"
They trudged through a carpet of fast-food wrappers and animal
droppings. Lee grew disgusted that anyone lived here at all. Lee
thought he heard something from somewhere in back. A furtive
movement by a back window. They cleared the closets leaving only
the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door was locked.
"You in there?" Lee
demanded.
"Yes."
"Rondell Cheldric?"
"Yes." The voice sounded calm to
the point of sounding rather annoyed.
"Come out. We want to talk to
you."
"Can it wait?"
"No." Lee glanced at Cantrell
with a perturbed, yet "is this guy for real" expression. Lee kicked
in the door, fearing evidence being flushed. Mulysa stood at the
sink, unflinching as his door crashed in, standing in front of a
cracked mirror daubing a knot under his eye. His dingy clothes gave
him the appearance of a postal carrier who did double duty as a
trash collector. From the stench, the only evidence flushed needed
to be.
"Hands where we can see them," Lee
said.
Mulysa finished wiping his face.
Either he was as cool as they came, or just plain stupid. He
underestimated how close he came to getting his ticket punched with
each uncooperative second.
"Can I help you?" Mulysa
asked.
"We got a few questions for you,"
Lee said.
"No need for the drama. I
would've let you in, but as you can see, I was, um,
indisposed."
"You're coming with
us."
"Sure." Mulysa had about reached
his point. His blood was up after his tussle with Tristan and his
head a little murky as he came down from his high. The cloak of
civility strained him to breaking.
"We doing this hard or easy?" Lee
stepped near to him, protecting himself through intimidation so
that he didn't have to use force. Of course, the suspect had to be
bright enough to perceive the threat.
"Nothing but easy. I didn't do
nothin', so I got nothin' to hide."
Cantrell knew poor. Since he grew
up poor, his heart went out to them even if he stopped short of
respecting them. His mother made the best home that she could amid
their own squalor. What little they had she took care of: swept her
porch, kept pictures on the fridge, ironed their threadbare
clothes. Another type of poor deserved their mess. If the corners
of the room smelled of piss, the way a shooting gallery would or if
food piled up and molded along the counters or floors. Mulysa had
been reduced to living like an animal, and didn't seem to much
mind. Cantrell rifled through a pile of clothes and overturned
couch cushions. A bag jangled as soon as he jostled it.
"Look what I found," Cantrell
chirped, toting a gym bag filled with an assortment of exotic
knives. Lee took the machete in his gloved hand, inspecting
it.
"Look here, you Uncle Tomming
motherfucker," Mulysa reared with a litany of insults and eyefucks
Cantrell had come to expect. "Them's my bitches."
"You like big knives?" Lee
asked.
"Put her down."
"Give it a rest, Lee," Octavia
started.
"What's the matter, Rondell?" Lee
continued being a shit. Sometimes he couldn't help being such a
cop. He ran his hand along the blade, deliberate and
slow.
"Don't you touch her." A strain
found its way into Mulysa's voice.
Cantrell rested a meaty hand on
Mulysa's shoulder, while he reached for a set of
bracelets.
"Oh that's the way it is. You
like that, huh?" Lee turned the blade over in his hands, an awkward
fondling, antagonizing the twitch in Mulysa's eyes.
"No one touches her but me,"
Mulysa said.
"Maybe she doesn't mind stepping
out on you."
"Dirty bitch."
With a wiry strength that they'd
all underestimated, Mulysa easily slipped from Cantrell's grasp.
The detective grabbed after him immediately, but the way Mulysa
fought, Cantrell suspected he was up on something. Lee grabbed two
handfuls of the man's shirt and shoved him into a wall. Despite the
awkward angle and purchase, Mulysa lifted him from his feet.
Cantrell punched him in his kidneys. Mulysa twisted and put his
shoulder into the landing, taking the air out of Lee. By the time
they were on him, Mulysa had Lee on the ground, punching him in the
face. In the ensuing scuffle, Octavia caught a stray elbow in her
eye. Even with Cantrell on one arm and Octavia on the other, Mulysa
threw his body at Lee. He pushed off several detectives until the
three of them pinned him down. Octavia was on the radio, calling
for patrolmen. She put her knee into Mulysa's back as Cantrell
fitted the cuffs onto his wrists. Lee staggered to his feet, only
managed a half-hearted stomp on the thug before Cantrell pulled him
up.
The door was ajar when they arrived at
Rhianna's place. Many times Percy had begged her to move. He
offered for her to stay with him where he could protect her. But
Rhianna had her situation set up. Between being an emancipated
teen, with Section 8 housing, and food stamps, she got by with a
little hooking on the side. Percy had already checked in with his
brothers and made sure they'd eaten and done their homework before
walking Rhianna home. As much as he wanted to be with King, his
first duty was to his family. So when the door wasn't completely
shut, he put up his beefy arm barring Rhianna from passing. He
pushed the door open and flicked on the light.
The place had been tossed.
Quickly and not thorough, the thieves snatched anything of easy
reach and quick resale value. He walked slowly through the house
though he knew they were long gone. It was a terrible thing when
your own home no longer felt safe. Stopping at each doorway, he
prayed for God's protection on the house – for the reality of His
presence to be made real for him. For a moment, guilt flashed in
him. It wasn't but a few months ago he himself had broken into this
apartment in search of anything of value in the name of his
crack-fiend mother. He had taken a ring, but returned it
later.
"It's gone," Rhianna
said.
"What?"
"There was a cup, it had been in
my family for years. I kept all sorts of valuables in
it."
A
ring. Percy knew, because that was where he returned
it.
"This lady I used to stay with.
Queen. She took me in and was sweet to me. She wanted me to have
it. Told me I was its guardian."
"I'll make it right," Percy said.
"I'll call the police. And I'll find the cup." And the ring.
"Oh." Rhianna held her
belly.
"What is it?"
"I think my water just
broke."
Rhianna retreated to her room.
The pains grew worse now as she rubbed the swell of her belly. Her
Tshirt wouldn't stay pulled down. Her blue jeans now two sizes too
small, her belly bulged over her white belt. She waddled to the
window. Kids played on the dilapidated equipment, too young to know
that the swings shouldn't be so ragged or the monkey bars so
rusted. The graffiti was a part of their world. All they knew was
the color of childhood, and innocence was preserved even here for a
time. Rhianna fell onto the edge of the bed. She set the radio to
Hot 96.3 for some hip hop and turned it up. She didn't get that
boy, but if she was going to cry, she didn't want Percy to hear
her.
He honored her request to leave
her alone. Your honor's more important than my comfort, Percy
thought. But he called for an ambulance.
The fear came in waves. Not fear
of the birth pains, those she'd handled before. The fear was the
renewed fear of bringing another child into the world. The fear
didn't come the first time. All she focused on then was her baby.
It never seemed real and even now she felt like she played at
parenthood. Visiting her baby when the mood hit her. This time
around, she was really scared. Scared because things seemed more
real this time. Part of her had really attached herself to the
child, had committed to doing it right this time. Maybe it was the
shame of having a baby to love her and then abandoning it when
things got inconvenient. Maybe when confronted with the depth of
her selfishness, she wanted to do things differently. Maybe she was
just growing up.
She would have to find a way to
provide for her child. Food. Clothes. Make a real home for it.
Courage sprouted up like a tenacious weed, and she dared to dream.
Maybe Outreach Inc. could help her get some food stamps and maybe
get her first child back. Perhaps she could get her own place, a
real place away from the robbing, drugging and killing. Some place
safe. Some place where they could be a real family.
Another wave of contractions
caused her to close her eyes. A low moan escaped her lips. She
prayed that God would water her courage, allow it to take root and
grow. Give her the strength to cling to the hope of a better
life.
"Percy, get in here!"
Percy trundled through the door.
"The ambulance is on the way."
"Just hold my hand."
With walls the color of coughed-up phlegm,
the interrogation room – affectionately known as The Box by the
detectives – was smaller a room than one might imagine. Manacled to
the table because of his carrying on during his arrest, Mulysa
rested his head on the metal table. Cantrell flipped open the case
file one more time. The bodies at the Phoenix Apartments had been
dropped by shots though the medical examiner was at a loss to give
him a caliber or make of gun. For all he knew, someone threw rocks
at them really hard. Knifings were almost always personal and
rarely involved business, though some crews employed knifemen. Yet
Mulysa's demeanor betrayed no feelings, nothing could reach his
heart. In the young homicide detective's experience, it signaled
that Mulysa was guilty as fuck. Now it was a matter of figuring out
of what.
"He been Mirandized?" Octavia
double-checked as she stared at Rondell Cheldric through the
observation window that opened into the interrogation room. Mulysa
nuzzled his head along his arm, sleeping the sleep of the
just.
"Yeah, declined representation,"
Cantrell said, nose still buried in the file.
"As many times as he been through
the system? He should know better."
"He knows. And he knows we know,"
Lee nearly spat with contempt. "He thinks that really proves that
he hasn't done anything."
"How do you want to go at him?"
Cantrell turned to his partner.
Lee smiled.
The impassive-faced detectives
entered the room and Cantrell took a seat across from him. Between
him and the door, not needing to voice aloud the reality that the
only way Mulysa was to see the other side of the door was through
him. Mulysa was no virgin to the system. The man rubbed sleep from
his eyes, not acknowledging Cantrell's presence.
Typically, Cantrell's approach in
the box was to be ebullient and respectful, eventually garnering
their confidence. Cantrell grew up in the neighborhood, always went
with the "I can relate" approach despite the fact he was now po-po,
the enemy, as relatable as a two-headed alien. But he ran the same
streets, he shoplifted from the same shops, ate fried catfish from
the same joints, and haunted the same clubs, like PickA-Disease as
they called Picadilly's back in the day. None of the social
niceties would be met with courtesy or appreciated, so a small-talk
approach was wasted on Mulysa.
"What does it say about a people
when none of the social pleasantries are observed?" Cantrell
asked.
"What?" Mulysa grunted.
"Nothing. A rhetorical
question."
"What?"
Cantrell leaned toward this
would-be hardass, this brute, this self-proclaimed menace to
society, who didn't retreat from the invasion of space. Quite the
opposite, as he was comfortable in the close quarters, even
matching the detective's advance. Mulysa's rank breath, decayed
bits of pork trapped between teeth, sprayed his face.
"It is hot in here," Mulysa
complained. "Why's the white boy got to be behind me?"
White boy. Lee's face grew hot at
the epithet since it was more insult than accurate description. It
wasn't like being called "nigger", which would have been automatic
go time were the roles reversed. But the sting of derision was
there, enough for his jaw to tighten. Lee took more than the
occasional hard elbow on the basketball courts over at Northwest
High School coming up. He understood the testing behind the comment
and the court jostling. He was expected to take it and considering
the white to non-white ratio of the streets and the school, he did.
But he didn't like it.
"He make you uncomfortable?"
Cantrell asked.
"Just don't like people behind me
is all," Mulysa said.
"Remind you of when you got sent
up?"
"Men behind you." Lee placed a
hand on his shoulder. "Got plenty of them days ahead of
you."
"Rondell Cheldric," Cantrell read
while pacing back and forth before closing the file folder he
cradled.
"You know my name?"
"Folks call you Mulysa. 'Asylum'
spelled backwards."
"You got that, huh?"
"I'm a clever Uncle
Tom."
"Yeah." He stopped short of an
apology but flashed an "it's all in the game" slow nod. "We all out
here: you, me, fiends. Like the circle of life. Doing our thing.
But in the end, we all get got. Dirt piled on us like we was shit
folks trying to hide. That's why it so important to leave a strong
name behind."
"A fierce rep," Cantrell
agreed.
"True dat."
"You in big trouble, Rondell."
Cantrell had a way of using a person's own name as a club,
repeating it in a way that forced the person to deal with
him.
"Why? I didn't do
nothin'."
"You hit a cop. That's
something."
"He was touching my–"
"'Bitches.' Yeah, we'll get to
that later," Cantrell said. "Assaulting an officer, in front of
other officers."
"You going down for that,
Rondell," Lee clubbed.
"You got to pay."
"That's how it works."
"You do. You pay."
This was the part of the dance
that Cantrell loved, the stage on which they performed. When they
fell into a rhythm, knew each other's plays, and today they were in
the zone. Rondell didn't stand a chance as they took turns
whittling the big man down to a more manageable, a malleable
size.
"Do you know who we are,
Rondell?" Cantrell eased away from the table, giving Mulysa room to
breathe and settle down. Pull back on the throttle, let him take in
the scenery and fully appreciate the jackpot he was in. They
actually didn't have much of anything on him. It would have been a
fairly friendly conversation – albeit with all the requisite chest
thumping – had Mulysa not chosen to act all foolish. All they had
was his name and knew that he was mixed up in the situation
somehow. Anything he and his bitches had been up to hadn't been
reported to the police. Still, he didn't know what they knew. Maybe
his bitches would give him up. Blood was hard to clean
up.
"You murder police." Mulysa came
out of his stupor from watching the pair of detectives sidle back
and forth.
"You know what that
means?"
"Someone's been
murdered."
"Exacta-mundo." Cantrell pointed
the folder at him with the beaming smile of a proud parent, then
set it on the table. Mulysa turned to face him. A scar underlined
his right eye and he was thick like a tree stump, though his blue
jeans still hung from him like drapes. Cantrell resisted the urge
to snatch the boy's wave cap from his head.
"What do you do for a
living?"
"Freelance
entrepreneur."
"You hear this shit?"
"Drug-dealing scum. You got that
on a business card?"
"I'm into a little bit of this,
little bit of that," Mulysa said, not acknowledging Lee. He
understood the dance. The disorienting effect of their back and
forth, meant to unnerve him. Rattle him to the point where he gave
something up. But they had nothing on him. Hadn't even told him
what he was being charged with. So he relaxed and allowed himself
to get caught up in their little banter game.
"How long have you been a
'freelance entrepreneur'?" Cantrell asked.
"Goin' on three years."
"You like it?"
"It a-ight."
"You like women, Rondell?"
Cantrell sat down on the corner of the table closest to Mulysa,
drawing his attention.
"Yeah." His breath reeked on top
of the wafts of his body odor, a mix of garbage, funk, and unwashed
ass.
"I mean, it's all right if you
don't."
"I do."
"He look gay to you?" Cantrell
asked.
"He could be half a fag," Lee
offered. "Maybe he just prison gay."
"I ain't no fag."
"That's a double negative,"
Cantrell said.
"Means you are," Lee
echoed.
"I ain't."
"That's what they call a Freudian
slip," Cantrell said. "Part of you may think that you
are."
"I… it… I ain't." The questions
and innuendo flew furiously at Mulysa. He wasn't having time to
think through the questions, much less his answers. Hated the way
they twisted things, damned cops. Not to mention his head
ping-ponging back and forth. Cantrell sat entirely too close. Lee
pressed in on him with his imposing stance, glaring at him with
clenched fists burrowing into the table.
"It's all right if you are,"
Cantrell said.
"These days you can screw fish if
it's your orientation,"
Lee said. "Don't take the blame. Blame
God."
"He made you that way," Cantrell said.
"He didn't," Mulysa said.
"You got a moms?" Cantrell raised up from the
table.
"Yeah," Mulysa said, the sudden
veer in the conversation left a slight tremor to his voice. He
didn't know where this was going either. A spirit of unease crept
into his posture. Though he had a practiced relaxed slouch, his
thick frame sprawled out in the chair; he was suddenly conscious of
it. Uncomfortable. But didn't know how to shift or straighten up
without appearing weak. Or guilty.
"You got a sister?"
"Two."
"They bitches?"
"What the hell?"
"No offense, man, but you seem to
like the word," Cantrell said. "Just rolls off your tongue with
ease."
"Bitches." Lee emphasized the
word as if savoring a fine filet.
"They your bitches." Cantrell
quoted Mulysa.
"No. I'd never disrespect my
moms."
"Bitches." Cantrell shook his
head disapprovingly. "You like to hit women, Rondell?"
"Naw."
"Not according to your sheet.
Looks to me like you don't like women at all." Cantrell pointed
dramatically to Mulysa's sheet. "What's that say?"
Lee studied the sheet carefully.
"Battery. Dispute with your girlfriend. Ended with a bloody
nose."
"Those charges were dropped,"
Mulysa protested.
"They about the only ones,"
Cantrell said.
"I keep getting pinched."
"You been a bad boy, Rondell."
Cantrell shifted his weight to edge closer to him.
"Bad boy, indeed," Lee echoed
from too close behind him.
"She got off easy though, didn't
she?" Cantrell pulled up another file, this time not letting him
see the pages. Anyone could be broken down given enough time and
the right circumstances. The need to confess, to get one's story
out before it was written for them was a powerful compulsion. They
were far afield of their original intent, but the vibe of the room
dictated their conversation. And it felt like they were onto some
dirt of his. Something with a woman. They needed to tread
lightly.
"She never became acquainted with
your bitches."
"Or is that your other bitches?"
"I never cut her," Mulysa
said.
"Looks to me like you got all
sorts of issues with women," Cantrell said. "Stems from issues with
his mother."
"That's what they say," Lee
said.
"What you got me in here for?"
Obviously agitated, Mulysa's stone-cool facade faded into a distant
memory. He straightened in his chair, stiff-limbed and uncertain.
Cantrell smiled. Now they could really go to work.
"Where were you on September
3rd?" Cantrell asked.
"Man, how am I supposed to
remember," Mulysa said. A high pitch slipped into his tone. "Where
were you?"
"The man raises a good point,"
Lee said. "September was a long time ago."
"Maybe if something happened that
day," Cantrell looked up toward Lee.
"Something that might jog his
memory."
"Let's try something easier. What
happened earlier tonight? Noticed one of your bitches…"
"Your bottom bitch?" Lee
mused.
"… had a little blood. What are
the odds that it will be a match to someone in the
system?"
"I don't know, detective," Lee
casually ambled toward Cantrell as if to whisper conspiratorially
with him. Though for Mulysa's benefit. "Fine upstanding citizen
like Mr Cheldric here, surely only associates with like-minded
innocents."
"Some fine young
thing."
"Maybe you were feelin' your
Wheaties tonight." Lee turned, fully entering Mulysa's orbit,
filling his field of vision.
"On top of the world." Cantrell
matched his stance, fully hammering at Mulysa now.
"So much so that you think that
you can talk to just anybody."
"And why not? Handsome man like
yourself."
"And who is she? Just some dumb
girl."
"Bitch." Cantrell spat the word
curtly, like a gunshot. Mulysa couldn't answer, only turn from
Cantrell to Lee, not quite keeping up with their rapidfire
performance.
"Probably looked at you like you
were beneath her." Lee emphasized the words as if empathizing with
his experiences.
"So you think to yourself…"
"No, he probably says it," Lee
interrupted on cue. "'You think you better than me?'"
"Who is she?" Cantrell
asked.
"Bitch," Lee said.
"She had it coming. Deserved what
she got." By this point, they had leaned in so close, they nearly
pressed their faces on either side of his. Cantrell continued.
"This snooty…"
"Pretty…"
"Smart…"
"White…"
"Bitch," Cantrell ended. The word
bounced against the tiles of the wall.
"I didn't… hurt her," Mulysa said
without conviction.
"This is how folks get a bad
reputation. You piss them off, they introduce you to their bottom
bitch," Lee said.
"You like knives, Rondell?"
Cantrell asked.
"Yeah."
"Big knives. Small
knives."
"Yeah."
"Special knives."
"He's a connoisseur," Lee
opined.
"Just like knives is all," Mulysa
said.
"We know. We got 'em. All. You
really like knives," Cantrell said. "We
check all of your knives, we gonna find any blood? DNA don't wash
off easy."
"Speaking of which…" Lee nodded
to the reports.
"Yeah, I almost forgot." Cantrell
thumbed through the reports. Mulysa had been up to something. Prob
ably completely unrelated to the murders over at the Phoenix
Apartments. But whatever nagged at him, whatever he was on the
verge of talking about, could be leveraged for cooperation later.
He perused the coroner's report from the active case as if it had
something to do with Mulysa. "You believe in safe sex?"
"Li'l Jimmy wearin' a hat?" Lee
included an insulting level of what he thought sounded like street
affectation.
"Don't bother. We know you
don't." Cantrell gambled at this point. The anguish on Mulysa's
face told him everything he needed to know. He flashed a glance at
Lee.
"Left semen all in her." Lee
gambled with the bluff. Cantrell didn't cut him even the slightest
of glances, backing his play.
"We're going to get a sample from
you. Make no mistake about it."
"Court order's already on the
way."
"Is it gonna match what we find
in her?"
They both stood now, staring down
at a hapless Mulysa. The silence grew cold as they
waited.
"She's a junkie and a whore. It's
her word against mine."
"Right, right. A junkie and a
whore against the word of a fine, upstanding citizen like yourself.
Tell us about what happened. Get you on record first and make it
easier on yourself."