In his living room, Maurice Pitts faced the two uniformed police officers.
The African American cop said, “Mr. Pitts, if you learn where Mrs. Beckman is, call either me or my partner. Here’s where you can get in touch. Just ask for Officer Jackson.”
Maurice nodded. The black cop was at least in his fifties, his hair going to gray at the sides. Maurice accepted the card with the policeman’s name and precinct telephone number.
“Thanks, officer. Hell I wish I knew where she was. I don’t for the life of me know why she parked her car here and didn’t come up. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m going to go over and have a talk with her mother,” the black cop said. “She’s convinced that you had something to do with Mrs. Beckman’s disappearance.”
“I’ll tell you again,” Maurice said. “I just met Tiffany. I saw her a couple of times. She spent the night here and that was about it. I’m just as upset as anybody else about this.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” the white cop said. He was a young man in his mid twenties, arrogant and sure of himself. “Mr. Pitts, you aren’t planning on leaving town anytime soon, are you?”
Indignant now, glaring at the white cop, Maurice said, “So I’m a suspect? Is that it?”
The black cop raised his hands, showed his palms and said, “Just take it easy, Mr. Pitts. It’s procedure. If you plan on going anywhere for any extended period of time give us a call, that’s all. Nobody’s suspected of anything at this point. She might show up. It happens all the time.”
“And if you guys come up with anything,” Maurice said to the black cop, “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. I want to find her as bad as you guys do.”
The porch had needed paint for years. When Michael knocked a second time, he heard noises from inside the old tenement house on South 6th Street. The door slivered open and the pockmarked face peered out, the outside light making the gnome-like man’s skin shine a sickly gray-white.
“Who’re you?” the gnome said. “What d’you want?”
“Hey, man, it’s me, Mike! C’mon Spider, don’t you remember me?”
The gnome peered closer.
“Oh yeah. Mike. Ain’t seen you in a while. What d’you want?”
“I’m looking for something,” Michael said.
“Something like what?”
“C-H.”
Nervous, the gnome looked up and down the street.
“All right. I guess you can come in.”
The house reeked of urine and stale beer. Garbage and dirty clothing lay strewn about the rooms. With the shades drawn the living room was cloaked in shadow, the only light from the small color TV on the sagging entertainment center. The lower walls, covered with iridescent whirls, proved to be crayon marks from a three-year-old artist.
Seated in the next room at the dining room table, a man and a woman worked. The man took another single sheet of magazine paper from a stack and cut the paper in squares. Then he formed a mini-envelope from each square. Beside him, the woman held a red plastic measuring spoon. Digging the spoon into one of the large zip lock bags, she used a butter knife to level off the white powder, making sure that the excess went back into the bag. She then carefully held the mini-envelope in one hand, and poured in the contents from the spoon. She closed the cover of the envelope and placed the packet with the others in the cardboard box.
The skinny woman ignored Michael. At thirty-six years old, between the methamphetamine and crack abuse, a casual observer might guess the woman was in her sixties. Desperately needing another fix of the raw cocaine, she gave Spider a hungry look, the left side of her head still greenish yellow from the most recent black eye.
In a high, raspy voice the man at the table said, “Hey Spider, do we get to sample?”
High on crack himself, Spider waved his arms and hissed, “No, you don’t get to fuckin’ sample! Dammit, Shorty! You just had some twenty fuckin’ minutes ago. And if I catch you sneaking any you won’t get shit from me! Ever again! You got that?”
The junkie nodded and said, “All right. “But you promised we got more coming, right? You promised.”
“Yeah, yeah, I promised. But not yet. Just finish off these bags. Then we’ll see.”
“All right Spider. No problem. I ain’t gonna steal none.”
Michael followed Spider into the kitchen. The overpowering odor of feces hung in the room. The round fluorescent fixture cast a bright white light, accenting the dirty dishes that overflowed in the sinks and on the countertops. In the back hallway, the dog growled—a big one from the sound of it.
Spider sat at the head of the kitchen table and asked, “You want a beer?”
“Sure,” Michael said.
Spider gestured to the refrigerator.
“Help yourself. Get me one too while you’re at it.”
From where he sat, Spider could view the dining room through the mirror mounted just outside the kitchen.
Squinting, he murmured, “Can’t trust either one of them fuckin’ degenerates.”
Michael opened the refrigerator door. The two top shelves were stocked with canned beer. The lower shelf had collapsed, and the half-eaten turkey lay in the filth at the bottom. When Michael saw the movement, he realized that the cockroaches had found a paradise of food in the turkey carcass. He retrieved one beer, closed the door, and handed the beer to Spider when he sat down.
“Thought you wanted one,” Spider said.
“Changed my mind.”
“So how much C-H d’you want?”
“Enough to drop a plus sized woman in her tracks.”
“Big one, huh? Y’know how they judge the size of a big fat one?”
The skinny junkie always had a joke. Michael decided to humor him.
“No, how?”
“There’s three sizes,” Spider explained. “There’s extra large, double extra large, and oh my God it’s coming at me!”
The druggie threw back his head and cackled like a chicken.
When he stopped laughing, Spider said, “That’s all you want? Need anything else?”
“Nah, just the C-H. I’m on the wagon with the other shit. Hafta go for a job interview.”
Disappointed, the gnome said, “It’ll cost you forty for four capsules. Put the powder in a drink and whammo, the broad’ll be flat on her fuckin’ back. Two will do it, but four will put her down for a good twelve hours. When she comes to she’ll be a zombie for a while. You’re really sweet on the bitch, huh?”
“You might say that. I don’t want to put it in a drink, though.”
“What, you gonna jab her with a kit?”
“Yeah. She don’t drink.”
Spider shot a glance at the mirror. Satisfied that the junkies weren’t ripping him off, he said, “I’ll be right back.”
The gnome went to the back bedroom. As Michael waited, movement caught his eye. At an open spot along the floor cabinets, a mouse raced toward the bathroom door, then disappeared.
When Spider returned, he tossed the baggie on the table. Michael saw that it contained the capsules and the shooting kit.
“Forty-five with the rig,” Spider said.
From his shirt pocket, Michael produced two twenties and a five.
“Here you go. Thanks,” Michael said. He stood up to leave.
“Hey, you got another twenty?” Spider said, “She might not be too much to look at, but she’ll suck the chrome off a bumper hitch. S’all she’s good for anymore. It’s time she took a break anyway. Just don’t kiss her.”
Again, the gnome-like creature threw his head back and cackled with laughter. He took a long drink of beer, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Michael replied, “Better gimme a rain check on that one. Besides, she ain’t fat enough for me.”
When Spider cried out in laughter and sprayed his mouthful of beer over the kitchen table, he went into a coughing spasm. Wheezing and hacking, when he finally regained his composure he said, “Get the fuck out of here before you kill me.”
Banking on the hope that the black man named Maurice hadn’t seen his car, Michael waited in the parking lot of the apartment complex. Near the back of the lot, the presence of the big Escalade meant Pitts was more than likely in the building.
Michael slumped down in the seat of the old Chevy. People came and went, no one paying any mind to his car in the visitor parking spot. When he noticed the African American man through the double doors on his way out of the building, Michael started the engine and pulled out of the spot. The electric passenger window slid open.
Holding the front of his collar tight against the wind coming off the lake, the black man approached the car. As he walked alongside, he was startled by the voice.
“Are you Mister Pitts?”
The black man leaned over and looked at the driver.
“Do I know you?” Maurice asked.
“No, we never met,” Michael said. “My name’s Louie. I’m a friend of Tiffany’s. She might have mentioned us—I mean my wife Bev and me. Tiffany and Bev are best friends.”
Maurice said, “Do you know where Tiffany is?”
“I know she’s in trouble and she want’s to see you. She sent me here. I know her old man. He’s going crazy—he threatened to kill her. She said she couldn’t call you. When she came over here to see you he followed her. He beat her up pretty bad and dragged her into his car. He took her to their house and duct taped her to a chair, but she got away. He’s been driving around looking for her. He’s got a gun.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yeah. But she’s beat up. She’s scared.”
“Does her mother know?”
“Yeah. She called the cops. They’re looking for him.”
“Where is she?”
“At my sister’s house.”
Maurice said, “I’ll follow you.” He turned to go to his car.
“Wait,” Michael said. “She said don’t take your car. He’ll recognize it. If you need a ride later I’ll bring you back.”
“I think I’ll take my own car anyway,” Maurice said. “You don’t need to hassle with it.”
“All right. Just follow me then. Who knows? He probably won’t be looking for her at our house anyway. In case we get split up I live on 63rd and Congress—6309 West.”
Michael reached for the window switch. The window began to slide up.
Maurice said, “Wait.”
The window stopped.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe I’ll ride with you anyway—if you don’t mind.”
Michael said, “No problem, buddy, Tiffany wanted it that way anyhow. Hop in.”
Maurice got in and closed the door. It didn’t feel right.
“Damn door sticks,” Michael said. “You got to slam it a little harder.”
After Maurice closed the door again, he turned in the seat when Michael extended his hand.
“The name’s Louie. Nice to meet you.”
Maurice reached out with his right hand.
“Nice to meet . . .”
Grasping the hand as tight as possible, in a lightning move Michael jabbed the syringe forward into the black man’s neck.
When Maurice saw the tattooed wrist, he tried to reach up with his left hand to ward off the needle. Too late to stop the plunging syringe, he grasped the driver’s right arm.
Michael felt the vise-like grip on his upper arm slowly abate as the powerful drug pumped into the black man’s arteries. Seconds later, Pitts slumped toward the gearshift.
Unnoticed, Michael pulled out of the parking lot. Driving to Lakeside Park, three blocks away from the apartment building, Michael drove to a secluded spot. There, he adjusted the seat belt, bent Maurice’s knees and positioned his unconscious body. Taking the hat from the back seat, he placed it on the black man’s head. To an observer, the passenger looked to be asleep.
When Michael returned to Aunt Esther’s house, he parked the car in the attached garage. After the monumental task of half carrying, half dragging one hundred eighty-five pounds of dead weight up to the attic, Michael rested in the armchair, laboring to catch his breath. The black man now lay on the floor at the base of the mirror.
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Reviewed by David Perry
10/1/2007
Enjoyed the writing. Great dialogue work.
Reviewed by Annette Hendrix Williams
9/28/2007
I do not think that I would like to visit that place.
An Internet stripper finds fortune, love and murder in New York City after an encounter with a rare first edition book, which opens doors to many possibilities.
