Out of the Blues (3 page)

Under federal sentencing guidelines, those convicted of federal crimes were eligible to have their time reduced if they gave reliable information about other criminals and crimes.

“So, my man Stone, you're snitching now,” she said, turning to the next document, Stone's signed statement.

She pushed a switch over the cubicle desk and a fluorescent light flickered across the transcribed pages.

Q:
For the record, my name is Lawrence Jones, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am recording this interview. Please state your name.

A: Stone.

Q:
Curtis Dwayne Stone?

Salt lifted her gaze from the page, closing her eyes, her memory reigniting the odor of gunpowder, replaying the bleating of a sheep. Stone had been The Homes gang member who was feared most. In her rookie days she'd witnessed the destitution of his childhood, and then it seemed he had determined it would be better for her to fear rather than pity him. Over the years he'd found opportunities to try to threaten her—finally last year assaulting her in her home. “Stone,” she said, and returned to the page.

Q:
Do you have knowledge of illegal drug sales, prostitution, and child exploitation by the individual who owned Sam's Chicken Shack and a strip club, Toy Dolls?

A: I don't know about no child exploitation, but, yeah, I know about drugs and hoes.

Q:
Mr. Stone, please describe what you know. What is the name of the man who you knew to be running those businesses?

A: John.

Q:
Last name?

A: That's all his name I know. They call him “Tall John.” I can't remember if I heard any other name he was called.

Q:
Please describe the man you know as John.

A: White, tall.

Q:
Any marks or scars?

A: He look just like anybody.

Q:
How did you come to know John?

A: I was hungry. He got me in back of Sam's trying to get some bags of peanuts off a truck.

Q:
How old were you then?

A: I guess about twelve.

It would have been right around the time she'd first encountered him, when she was a rookie. Christmas, him in his thin sweatshirt,
his shoulders like the unfolding wings of a vulture. She'd tried to find his guardian instead of taking him to Juvenile and found only a dreadful, sad apartment where he and other children were neglected. Salt pressed the length of her palm to the scar.

Q:
Who did you live with?

A: I stayed with lots of people.

Q:
What did he do when he caught you?

A: He said I had to work to pay for stealing.

Q:
What kind of work did you do for John?

A: Work around the bars.

Q:
Did you go to school?

A: Sometimes.

Q:
What work did John have you doing?

A: Whatever he tell me to do.

Q:
What did he tell you to do?

A: Clean the bathrooms, sweep, pick up trash.

Q:
What else?

A: Go with men.

Q:
Do you mean you had sex with men for money?

A: I didn't have no sex with them.

Q:
What did you do when you went with the men?

A: They gave me blowjobs.

Q:
Are you saying that they performed oral sex on you?

A: Yeah.

Q:
Did you do oral sex on them?

A: If I had to.

Q:
What about anal sex?

A: What about it?

Q:
Did John send you with men that wanted anal sex?

A: I'm not that way.

Q:
Did some men put their penis in your anus when you were twelve years old?

A: Yeah.

Salt looked away from the file again, stood, and strode to the back wall that was lined with file cabinets labeled by year. “Damn.” She
drew a breath, looked down the long wall of file cabinets, then turned back to the flickering cubicle.

Q:
Did John have other people who exchanged sex for money?

A: He had hoes, some of the dancers.

Q:
How long did you work for John?

A: Until Man let me stay with him.

Q:
By Man you mean James Simmons?

A: Yeah, he hid me from John. He looked out for me and had his boys look out if John came around.

In The Homes the gang was headed by charismatic, handsome Man and included his brother and others, mostly young men who'd grown up together in The Homes. Some were now dead and some, like Stone, were in prison, put there by her. Man had always kept a safe distance from direct contact with the drugs and guns. Man, with his wide smile, and Lil D, with a birthmark the shape of a continent on his neck. Lil D, whose mother's murder had, in part, led to Salt's assignment to Homicide.

Q:
Did John sell drugs?

A: Yes.

Q:
Did you see drugs?

A: Yes. He the head junk man in this city then.

Q:
By junk you mean heroin?

A: Yeah, H.

Q:
Do you know if he still deals?

A: Word that he don't have no direct connection after them Black Mafia brothers moved in. But back then he deal some H. He still run hoes, but he big money now, runnin' high-dolla bitches out his clubs.

Q:
What other businesses is he involved with?

A: Now he got dealing with Sam's and the Blue Room, Magic Girls, and maybe some white club somewhere.

Q:
What do you know about the death of Mike Anderson, the singer and guitar player?

A: I know Tall John give that blues boy a hot pop.

Q:
How do you know that?

A: 'Cause he told me. He said that's what he do when people that work for him don't do what he say.

Q:
Did you see him give heroin to Mike Anderson? How did he know Mike?

A: That blues boy worked in one of the clubs, singing and playing the guitar. Got his H that way. I didn't ever see John
changing junk for cash personally. Just saw the product in his office.

Q:
When was the last time you had contact with or saw John?

A: Right before I was locked up last year. He pass by me all the time in the street.

Q:
You said you hid from him.

A: Not after I got grown.

Q:
Is there anything more you can tell me about illegal activity?

A: That's all I've got to say.

Before closing the file, she turned to the back and Stone's booking photo. In The Homes the faces of young men grew hard and sharp, calcified, their bones fixed like knives, a fearful hardening with things you could never know, things they didn't even tell themselves. The scowly surfaces glistening in sunlight or streetlight. No bit of softness.

Salt closed the file, stood, and put on the coat over her torn clothes.

—

H
EAD
LOWERED
to the phone that he held in his left hand, Huff raised his eyes when Salt appeared in his office doorway. “Yes, I realize the pressure you must be facing, Councilwoman,” he said, swiping his free hand over his scalp and rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling.

“The press has been all over us, too.” He leaned his head back on his shoulders and closed his eyes, listening. “Detective Wills
is
one of our best . . .

“No, we are certain this case is not related to the Solquist murders. I realize they were your constituents . . .

“Of course the neighborhood is upset. When a crime like this occurs, everyone wants to know it was not random . . .

“No, we don't give out the detectives' phone numbers to anyone. The chief is your best bet.” He held the handset away from his ear as an indistinguishable but loud woman's voice emanated from the earpiece. He put the phone back to his ear. “I probably will enjoy walking a beat again.”

Huff spoke to the loudly buzzing dial tone, “Thank you, Councilwoman Mars,” dropped the phone into its cradle, and looked up at Salt while slamming a desk drawer shut. The room smelled suspiciously of microwave popcorn. “Now, what can I do for you? I just love me some women in my business.” Most of the files stacked on his desk were bright green, while purple, blue, and yellow ones were piled on the floor, cabinets, and chair. There was no place to sit.

“I guess you finished reading the file? You cold?” He pointed at her coat.

“You gave me a very cold case.” She stood in the doorway.

“You arrested Stone. You know The Homes. Your reputation preceded you, and around here no good deed goes unpunished.” Huff grinned.

“The limitations of any statute that could apply are up on everything but murder, so the feds don't care about the rest, the child prostitution, the drugs?”

“You got it. They took the statement and handed it to us. They got bigger fish to fry.”

“Did anyone even bother to find out who ‘John' is?”

“The Shack is owned by an LLC—I don't remember what name, but if you find the company it's not likely you'll find John's name on the license. That's why they now call you detective, Detective.”

“You also know Stone tried to kill me.”

“And now you'll be helping him by verifying the information he gave in the statement. You're right. None of the accusations, except the murder, mean anything.”

“How much of his time will get cut if I can corroborate his information?”

“Oh, about the amount he'd do for assaulting a police officer. Interesting dilemma. I like a sense of humor in a detective.”

“Which of the other comedians will I be working with?”

Huff stood up and stretched with his hands on his lower back. “You mean for a partner? Let's see how you do alone first. Think of it as another chance to prove yourself. See if that dog luck holds.”

Salt turned from the door just as a previously teetering stack of green files on his desk began a slow-motion slide to the floor.

As Salt came out, Rosie hung up the phone, the paperback she'd been reading spread facedown on the desk. The cover illustration depicted a bare-chested man with flowing blond hair clutching a buxom brunette.

Salt pointed to the book. “Good read?”

Rosie swept her hair to one side of her heavily made-up face—pancake foundation, blue eye shadow, red, glossy lipstick. “I'm a romantic. What can I say?” Rosie, legally Roger Polk, had claimed her new name and transgender status two years previously, and was in the process—counseling, hormones—of completing the transition.

“I think I'm going to need some help,” Salt told her. “My computer isn't hooked up. I don't know where the supplies and forms are kept. Apparently Sarge wants me to learn the ropes on my own.”

Rosie leaned back in the chair, eyes resting on the book, sighed,
then waved an imaginary wand. “Actually, feng shui is my specialty. Just leave it to me. Did they give you Rita's desk? I thought so. By tomorrow it will be like a fairy godfather-soon-to-be-mother has come to your rescue. Oh, and don't mind Sarge; by the way, don't call him Sarge. He's just a sweetie. I have such a crush on him. Well, that's another story. You just go do your girl detective thing. And I'm sure you get this all the time, but you have the most unusual blue eyes. I love what you're doing with your hair.”

Salt made a note to herself to cut some of the flowers that grew close to the sheep paddock. She was almost certain Rosie would love the big pink camellias.

—

H
ANDCUFFED
and ankle-shackled, Stone shuffled into view on the other side of the heavy clear-plastic partition. The red jumpsuit, the prison uniform that signifies the wearer is mentally ill, hung loosely on his frame. His hair, intricately done in cornrows, formed a galaxy pattern. He sat down and propped his manacled arms on the steel counter. In the center of the partition was a five-by-five-inch square stippled with nail-sized holes. The air smelled of iron, of flesh-piercing slivers, of tears in the universe.

Stone kept his head turned to the graffiti scratched into the paint on the side wall of their divided booth.

“I've read the statement you gave to the FBI agent.”

Stone continued his perusal of the scratchings.

“If I can find somebody else who knows that John meant to kill the bluesman, and if your information leads me to an arrest, you're eligible to get your time cut.”

“Ain't no ‘eligible' about it,” he replied. His voice sounded strangled. “So what you got to do with what I'm telling the FBI guy?” Before she could answer, he turned and faced her. She'd thought it
was because of the barrier that separated them that his voice sounded different, but it wasn't the Plexiglas or the holes. His mouth had a caved-in look and was ringed with teeth-sized scars. His lips folded inward until he opened his mouth as wide as seemed possible, showing off his teeth, all of which were gone or broken off. He turned his loose lips up in a horrible grin, then flapped them together, making a wet, smacking sound. The shouts of men accompanied by the sounds of metal striking metal came from the hallway behind Stone.

“I've been assigned to investigate the death of Mike Anderson, the bluesman.”

Stone went back to examining the wall hieroglyphics. He brought up his shackled hands to touch a finger to a piece of a word. His eyes slid to her in a sideways stare. “That's funny. You end up workin' to get me free.”

“You are the second person to see humor in this,” Salt told him, “but the first wasn't me.”

There was a sudden moldy refrigerant odor, and the close air turned quickly cold.

“So the white bitch cop put me in here now gonna help get me out.” He made a click with his cheek.