Marrying Mike...Again (10 page)

Went down for a close up. Nobody noticed. Suits like you can go forever without seein’ a kid like me. Unless I leave the east side. Then little old ladies cross the street to get away. Pretty young ladies lock their cars. I ain’t ever hurt a girl. My mama raised me better’n that, I know whats right.

But you don’t care in the west side. You look at my skin, you see a monster, you lock the doors. Ain’t nothing I can do but peel off my own face. I tried that once, long time ago when I was little. Hurt like hell and didn’t change a thing. It’s better to stay in the east side. Homeys’ll just shoot me here and I ain’t got no fear of that. Maybe get me a clostamy bag. Or wheelchair. Or a casket. Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before. Shootin’ in the end, be more honest.

So tell me, Man. You think you can come into my streets now? You think you be safe?

I got my gun out, Man. Cleanin’ it the way my brother taught me. I be thinkin’ next time, I’m gonna hit more than a damn city car. Then maybe you’ll start listenin’ to me, Man. Then maybe, you finally learn to
pay attenshun!

God take good care of my mama. God take good care of my sister. Devil sit on my shoulder, for he be better company for a brother like me.

Vee

Sandra finished reading the letter and crisply folded up the slim morning paper. She took a fortifying sip of strong black coffee, then absently rubbed the back of her neck where her shoulder muscles were already bunched up tight.

It was five-thirty in the morning. The
Citizen’s Post
had called her about Vee’s letter late last night. She’d called the mayor, who hadn’t been surprised. He’d already spent time since the shooting being inundated by phone calls—from the African-American League, accusing the cops of provoking the attack by entering the east side. From the Chamber of Commerce, demanding to know if police officers were now going to abandon the struggling east-side businesses. From the East-Side First Congregational Church, quietly informing the mayor that if the police exercised any undue violence against a troubled thirteen-year-old boy, they’d bring the American Civil Liberties Union down upon his white middle-class male head.

Mayor Peterson was not amused.

Neither was Sandra. The situation was volatile, she agreed. Of course, they would resume regular patrols of the area. In fact, they would double up patrol cars, adding a lookout vehicle for the officers’ protection. They would exercise caution and try to show restraint. But they would not abandon the east-side businesses or community members. They could not let a thirteen-year-old boy hold the police department hostage.

Mayor Peterson had said simply, it wasn’t enough.

Getting up from the kitchen table, depositing her coffee cup in the sink, Sandra knew the mayor was right. She needed a more aggressive plan of action.

She needed to be doing more to manage her ex-husband, Mike.

His kiss last night. Slow, persuasive, melting. One hundred percent Mike Rawlins. Oh, God, she had missed those kisses. And the way he used to hold her, solid against his broad, hard chest, until she could feel herself fold into his frame, surrendering herself to the total possession of his embrace. He was the only man she’d ever met who could make her feel small and delicate. The only man who could take on her temper, twist it with a wink and grin and suddenly have her feeling feminine and attractive again. She missed sparring with her ex-husband. Frankly, she missed his body.

After last night’s encounter, her dreams had turned on her, filling with erotic memories of the days that had been. Mike looking into her eyes with that intent Cajun gaze. Mike sliding into her body, hot and sweat slicked, whispering, “How’s that,
ma chère?
You like that? What about this? And this…”

She’d woken up at five that morning to find her body soaked and her hands in a death grip on the sheets. Still dazed and confused, she’d turned to Mike’s side of the bed, hungrily reaching for him. Then consciousness had returned like a bucket of ice water. The bed was empty. The house was empty. She was alone and the closest she got to fulfillment anymore was the yearning visions of her dreams.

She’d showered for a long time, trying to cleanse the images from her mind, trying to pretend she didn’t have tears on her cheeks. Trying to tell herself it was only the stress of her new job that had her nerves so frayed.

In the end, however, she knew herself too well to be fooled. Right after the divorce, all of her nights had been like this. Dreaming of Mike, reaching for Mike, waking up alone. One week, crazed and sleep deprived, she’d driven all the way to his apartment. She’d sat in her car, rehearsing what she’d say.

I’m sorry about the house, Mike. Sorry I made you move into some beige and glass monstrosity that you never felt was home. We should’ve found a new house together, where we’d both feel comfortable.

I’m sorry about my parents, Mike. Sorry they made you feel second-rate or second-class. I should’ve told my mom to drop it—love me, love you.

I’m sorry about all the fights, Mike. Sorry I didn’t know how to talk to you without it turning into war. Sorry I didn’t know how to get you to understand what I needed, sorry I chattered so incessantly about work.

And I’m sorry you never felt you could talk to me about your day. I’m sorry you belonged more to the police force than to me. I’m sorry your family came first, then your partner, and in the end, you’d rather spend your evenings with anyone but me. I’m sorry that in the end, you didn’t even want my body anymore, and I knew our marriage was over the first morning I woke up and found you asleep on the sofa. I’m sorry you grew to hate me that much and love me so little.

She’d put her car into gear and driven away then without looking back. And from then on, she’d focused on getting Mike Rawlins out of her dreams, not back into her life.

But here he was now. They were working together. She had to see him day after day, watching the way he strode confidently down the halls, memorizing the fluid movements of his hands, catching that careless wink. Someday she’d probably encounter him leaving the building with another woman. Or hear stories of some date. Watch him flirt, seduce, fall in love with someone else.

Her hands tightened on the edge of the ceramic sink. For a moment, that thought hurt so much Sandra didn’t think she could bear it.

Then she forced her hands to loosen. She forced herself to take a deep breath. She reminded herself that these were the choices she had made. And she was strong; she could handle anything. Including her ex-husband. Including a troubled boy named Vee.

A minute later, Sandra was on the phone. Her first call woke the man up, but went well. Her second call was slightly more nerve-racking to make.

“Good morning, Rusty. Did I wake you? Good. Listen, Mike keeps telling me you’re a good cop. I’m not sure I believe him, yet, Detective, but for his sake, I’m willing to give you a second chance. My office, ten o’clock. This time try to make it.

“You have a meeting with the high school principal at seven? Well, if you magically find Vee, all the better. If you don’t, I’ll assume you’ll be at the meeting. Don’t worry, Rusty, you won’t even have to listen to me speak. You wanted someone who actually knows these kids and these streets. Well, I’ve found him for you. Don’t be late.”

Sandra hung up the phone. Then she went burrowing into her walk-in closet for her best power suit. It was going to be one of those days.

Dr. Howard Mayes was a bear of a man. Even a charcoal-colored three-piece suit did nothing to diminish the girth of his barrel chest or the thick size of his legs. Sandra suspected football somewhere in his background. She had escorted the grizzly-haired professor to one of the interrogation rooms while they waited for Mike and Rusty. Dr. Mayes read Vee’s two letters, scrawling copious notes in the margins.

She left him long enough to meet with her lieutenants again. Patrol Officer Fletcher had gone home from the hospital last night and would be fit to return to duty by next week. Ricochet, Sandra reminded everyone firmly, and was pleasantly surprised to finally earn a few approving nods. They discussed doubling up patrol cars in the east side for safety. They discussed making vests mandatory for all officers until the crisis passed. They discussed the mayor’s concerns if a shooting did erupt, and the need to handle the situation delicately.

Sandra wasn’t sure, but she had the impression her lieutenants were satisfied with the decisions she’d made. Doing her best to protect her officers without backing down from a threat. Handling the politics with the mayor while trusting her police officers to get the job done. Maybe the animosity toward her ran a little shallower today. Maybe it was the suit.

At ten, Mike and Rusty joined her in the interrogation room with Dr. Mayes. The meeting with the high school principal must not have gone well for they both looked glum.

Rusty saw Dr. Mayes and his perpetual scowl deepened. Mike saw Sandra and performed a double take. Sandra definitely attributed that to her suit. This morning’s hunter-green ensemble sported a formfitting jacket smartly tailored over a surprisingly short skirt. The saleswoman had assured Sandra that the authoritative lines of the jacket offset the unprofessional hem length of the skirt. Plus, she’d confided, Sandra had the legs for it. Judging from Mike’s sudden inhalation of breath, he agreed.

Sandra started off the meeting feeling better than she had in days.

“Dr. Howard Mayes, may I please introduce the two detectives in charge of the case—Detective Rusty Koontz and Detective Mike Rawlins. Rusty and Mike, this is Dr. Mayes from Boston University’s sociology department. In addition to being an expert on gang psychology, he grew up in South Boston with firsthand experience in the area.”

“I lost my older brother to a drive-by,” Dr. Mayes interjected deeply. “I lost my younger brother to cocaine. I chose the church, figuring I might as well start out close to God because everyone in my family ended up with him anyway. Then education became my ticket out.”

Sandra nodded, doing her best to pretend that Koontz wasn’t rolling his eyes. “I’ve asked Dr. Mayes to help give us an understanding of how Vee thinks and how we might best approach him once we identify him. I know the gut reaction among many officers is to go in guns blazing, but the mayor and I both feel it’s imperative that this situation not end violently. The boy is only thirteen, and he hasn’t actually harmed anyone yet. We need to keep that in mind.”

“Tell that to Fletcher,” Koontz muttered.

“Officer Fletcher is fine, Detective. Thanks for asking.”

Koontz glared at her. She returned his gaze until Mike interjected casually, “Come on, Rusty. As long as we’re here, we might as well listen to the good doctor. It’s not every day we get an expert visiting our small town all the way from Boston. I think this means we’re finally important. Or just unlucky as hell.”

Dr. Mayes chuckled. “Not important,” he declared in his sonorous voice. “Not unlucky. Just typical. We are producing Vees all across this country, I’m afraid. Confused, angry African-American males, trying to come of age in an environment of severe poverty, drugs and racism. It’s a confusing time in a boy’s life. It’s an angry time. And in the inner cities, it can be deadly.

“Come on, Detectives. You must remember how it was to be thirteen. Peach fuzz on the cheeks. Hair under the arms. Starting to notice that girls smell differently, move differently, have
chests…
”

Dr. Mayes paused strategically. Sandra noticed that Koontz was looking self-conscious by the personal turn in conversation but was nodding reluctantly. Mike, of course, was nodding wholeheartedly. Alexandria’s Don Juan was probably remembering exactly what girl he’d noticed first. How she moved, how she looked. That first kiss… Sandra edged back a few feet so she didn’t give in to the urge to slug her ex-husband.

“Now, in any suburban or rural environment,” Dr. Mayes continued easily, “there are outlets for this hormone-crazed time in a boy’s life. Hard labor around the farm to blow off steam. Organized sports like Little League baseball or Pop Warner Football to marshal all that raging testosterone and give it focus. But in an inner-city environment, these resources are sorely lacking. No Little League games or amateur football. Pickup games of b-ball are the trend, but hoops are hard to come by. So that’s our first problem—Vee’s got all these hormones, all these raging emotions, and no productive outlet available.

“Which brings us to the second point. Vee is on the brink of manhood. He’s looking around, searching for someone to emulate. Who does an inner-city black kid have as a role model? Statistics tell us most of their fathers are in jail, uncles, too. There are sports heroes, but they are distant models. Who does a child in the projects see day in and day out?” Dr. Mayes didn’t wait for answer. He boomed, “Drug dealers, that’s who. The young, successful urban entrepreneur is most likely a dope dealer, a high roller. And this young man is employing other youths, buying his mama a new car, and decking out his girlfriend in gold chains. He seems to be the only path to success. Except then there are the drug-related shootings and the gang violence that go hand in hand with the life-style. So now Vee’s gotta think, being a successful black entrepreneur also means winding up dead. Good life, but a short life. What’s a kid to do?”

“Shoot up cops,” Koontz growled. “Freakin’ fine role model there.”

Dr. Mayes shook his head. He looked at Koontz almost pityingly. “Detective, you are not understanding this child yet. He doesn’t hate cops. He hates young black males. And he’s not trying to hurt cops. This boy is trying to hurt himself.”

“Huh?”

For once in her life, Sandra agreed with Koontz. Even Mike was looking confused. Dr. Mayes took a deep breath.

“Let me try to make this clear. It has been a source of puzzlement for quite some time that the number-one killer of young black men is young black men. In sociology circles, we’ve been trying to make sense of this by interviewing urban African-Americans about what it means to be African-American. Frankly, that’s a conflicting thing. These children grow up surrounded by their own race, but in an environment none of them like. So they try to leave. At some point in every inner-city child’s life comes the first bus trip out. And if this journey is to a predominantly white neighborhood, what is the first thing this child encounters? Racism. Women locking their car doors or crossing to the other side of the street. Patrol cops stopping the child for no good reason. Store owners chasing him out of their establishments. It’s shocking the first time. Then it’s simply haunting. Everywhere this child goes, he gets the message he’s unwanted. So he has to take the bus trip back to the projects, which he now recognizes as some kind of punishment for a crime he never committed. This is an inner-city black male’s first lesson when he searches for his identity. He is a criminal. He doesn’t understand why, but he’s fundamentally unloved.