Blossom (11 page)

48

M
CGOWAN ANSWERED the phone on the first ring.

"It's me," told him. "I'm in Indiana, just outside Gary. Working on a case. A sex–sniper, real ugly freak. My brother's cousin is a suspect. I'm looking for the real hitter. There's a detective out here, name of Sherwood. If I give him your name and number, will you go for me?"

"What's that mean?"

"Tell him what I am. What I'm not."

"Okay, pal. He might not like what he hears."

"I'll chance it. Out here, I'm Mitchell Sloane, okay?"

McGowan's honey–Irish voice came through the line. "Tell him to call. I'm not in, I'll get back to him."

"Thanks."

He hung up.

49

D
RIVING OVER to the hideout that night, little tongues of flame licked at my insides. Not my old friend. Not fear. Not yet. I knew why I came to Indiana. Did what I came for. What my brother asked. I knew the Sociopath's Song by heart. Travel light and you travel fast.

But you got nothing when you get there.

I knew the man who was out there. Out there in the dark, shadow–stalking, licking his lips, directing his porno movies through a telescopic sight. Making them into snuff films.

I didn't owe it to anyone to hang around, see this thing through.

And if I owed it to myself, I didn't want to know why.

50

T
HE SPORTING–GOODS store had a good supply of boxing equipment. I ignored the rifles stacked against the far wall, concentrating on what I needed for now.

When I got inside the hideout, I dumped the duffel bag out on the floor. Told Virgil we'd all be going in soon.

He nodded, looking at the boxing gloves lying on the cement. "He's been beating the hell out of that heavy bag. We gotta know the rest."

The rest. Punching bags don't punch back. If Lloyd was going to quit, we needed to know. Now.

"Let's do it," I said.

I waved Lloyd over. "We're going to spar some now, kid. See how those hooks of yours work when someone's trying to block them, okay?"

Lloyd held out his hands for the gloves, head down. Hesitant.

"What's wrong, boy?" Virgil's voice was quiet, steady.

"What if I hurt Burke?"

Virgil's laugh had relief in it. "Hell, son, you couldn't…"

I stepped on his words. "You won't be able to hurt me, Lloyd. It looks like I'm in trouble, Virgil'll pull you off quick enough."

He nodded. I wrapped the Ace bandage over one hand. Held out the other for Virgil. "Not too tight," I told him.

The top of the kid's head came about to my chin. I banged the gloves together, rolled my shoulders, rotated my neck on its column, getting ready.

Lloyd was still watching me closely when I shot a sharp jab into his chest. He grunted, backed up, and I slid my left foot forward, hooked to his gut, chopped him down with a short right to the jaw.

The kid hit the ground, came up swinging, trying to get his face buried in my chest. I caught a double left hook on my right forearm, fired a return shot under his heart as he dropped his arm. He went down again.

He came up slower this time, face flushed. I flicked a jab in his face. It bounced off his cheek as he came forward, head lowered, butting at my chin. He dropped his left shoulder but fired with his right, catching me right at the belt line. I grabbed the back of his neck with my right glove, pulled his face into my left fist. Something squished. He hit me a half dozen hammer shots to the ribs, pushing forward, shoulders working.

Virgil pulled him off. The kid's face was bleeding, blood bubbling around his nose as he sucked in air. I sat down on the floor. Virgil raised Lloyd's hand in the air, his hard–coal voice a parody of a ring announcer. "Referee stops contest at two minutes and fifteen seconds of the first round. The fighter from New York is unable to continue. A TKO for the man from Kentucky.
Llllloyd
!"

51

L
ATER THAT NIGHT, we told Lloyd about the joint. "You remember the guy we called Astro?" I asked Virgil. I felt a laugh bubble in my chest, thinking back. "That fat dude with the long hair in on a transfer from another
federale
joint?"

"I guess. Never spoke to him much."

"Yeah. Well, anyway, this guy Astro…he used to live in this giant hippie commune. All they did was harvest grass, drop acid, play music, and ball. Sounded good, hear him tell it. One day one of the other hippies, Jonah, he drops about a quart of LSD. Goes right to the moon. Sits there staring into space, not talking, not eating. Out of it. And he stays like that for
days
, okay? So they have a meeting, all the hippies. What they decide to do is send someone to visit this guy Jonah, find out how he's doing. This one chump gets elected. Astro says the chump takes exactly the same dose as this guy Jonah, and he goes into the same exact trance. Now the fucking hippies got
two
guys who need a CAT scan. So, naturally, they call another meeting. Meanwhile, the second guy, he comes out of the nod and walks into the tent. They all crowd around him. Ask him if he got to see Jonah. So this other hippie, he tells them: Hey, I saw Jonah. He's cool right where he is. Says to leave him alone, stop bothering him."

Virgil chuckled, remembering. "Whatever happened to Astro?"

"You got me, brother. He made parole and that was it. He went back to his life. But, whatever, he found his way to do the time, right? On another planet."

Virgil gave the kid a beer. Took one himself.

"This guy we're looking for…he's a monster, right? Like the Prof told us that one time. Remember, brother, when we were all locked down after that rumble on the yard?"

He turned to Lloyd. "We didn't have no TV in the hole. No radios, no books, nothing. So every night, the Prophet, he'd tell us stories. One night it'd be about women. He'd tell you about watching a stripper and I swear to God you could
see
the girl working, right on your cell wall. Or he'd tell us about some hustle he pulled off. Or about old–time guys,
real
cons, back when a good thief was something to be proud of. One night, he told us about the legend. That was the first time I knew what a monster was."

I closed my eyes, remembering, hearing the Prof's voice.

Myths and monsters.

52

V
IRGIL'S VOICE interrupted the memories, like he was plugged into my thoughts. "Yeah, what a man he was. Sure helped me become one."

The kid's voice was tight with wonder. "How do you get that?"

"What you mean, Lloyd?"

"I mean…what makes a man? A real man." Questions only a kid can ask from his heart. Like knowing is all there is to it. I was thinking about how to tell the kid about Michelle, when Virgil met it straight on. "Same thing that makes a real woman, son. After the storm, all you got is the foundation."

53

S
OME OF THE bounce was missing from Cyndi as she came up to take my order.

"You have a pay phone somewhere around?" I asked her.

"Maybe you need somebody to show you a phone, huh?"

I took a drag of my cigarette, waiting.

She put her palms on the table, leaned forward. "You never called me."

"No. I'm going to be pulling out soon. Finish my work. You're a fine woman, Cyndi. Not the kind a man plays with. I'm not your ticket out of here. No point throwing beautiful flower seeds on concrete."

"I never asked you for promises."

"You don't have to ask. I respect you too much not to be asking myself."

She slid into the seat across from me. "That's a sweet goodbye."

"It's not goodbye, girl. It's just…a girlfriend's not what I need right now. And I'm sure not what you need anyway. There's something out there for you a lot better than whatever I am, okay?"

"You think I'll get out?"

"I know you will."

"That's what Blossom says. You know what that old girl told me the other day? She said I was smart enough, I should go to college."

"You think that's nuts?"

"I did at first. But, I don't know. I had a boyfriend once. A guy I met at the club. He was an accountant. Told me I had a real head for numbers. And he wasn't playing…I know when a man's playing."

"Then you know I'm not, right?"

Her smile flashed. "Right."

"Friends?"

She slid out of the booth, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, wiggled off to give Leon the order.

Blossom walked by. Nodded gravely at me. Like I'd done the right thing. I watched the set of her shoulders, the line of her jaw. Knowing I'd seen it before, somewhere.

54

W
E BROUGHT Lloyd in that Monday. Bostick met us at the police station. Introduced me as a private investigator from his office. Mitchell Sloane is a versatile man.

They charged Lloyd with bail jumping. Remanded him, set a hearing down for Wednesday.

Sherwood was there. Big man, round face, mostly skull on top. Ham hands, sausage fingers. Khaki suit, clip–on tie, walking shoes. Dumb the way a bear is slow—he wouldn't turn up the flame unless he had something to burn.

Sherwood gravely thanked Virgil for finding Lloyd. Said he did the right thing, his voice neutral, not empty. Pick what you want.

Virgil shook his hand, nodded. Watchful.

We stepped onto the sidewalk. I pulled Bostick aside. "You get what I wanted?" I asked him.

"Hightower. Jefferson James Hightower. Seventeen years old. Honcho'ed a crack posse in Gary. Allegedly shot a
chulo
from one of the Chicago Latin gangs when they tried to move on his territory. Doing real well for himself, moving up in the organization. Registry shows him owning a Nissan Maxima and a Kawasaki Ninja cycle. Only family is his mother. She lives over in the Delaney Street Projects. Visits him about three times a week."

"Thanks."

"See you in court."

55

V
IRGIL DROVE THE Lincoln through the streets parallel to Broadway. He crossed the avenue, approaching from the Gary side. I gave him a look. "Downwind," is all he said.

Big sign dominated the wide street: MONEY TO LOAN · NEED JACK? SEE JACK! The pawnshop was half a city block. I wondered if they sold guns, make it a one–stop shop.

The neighborhood was full of hand–painted signs for locksmiths, bottle clubs, custom car washing—no machines. Black men on the corners, watching like they watch in every city.

The Projects were a series of brick attached one–story homes. We found the number two blocks in from Harrison Street—the Maxima was parked out front.

I left Virgil in the car. Knocked on the door. A solidly built black woman answered.

"Yes, sir?" Eyes wary.

"Mrs. Hightower, my name is Sloane. I'm a private investigator. I work for Mr. Bart Bostick, the criminal defense lawyer…"

She nodded, waiting.

"I'm investigating a case. You know those sniper killings? Those teenagers who got killed over by the dunes, in that lovers' lane?"

"I don't know nothin' about…"

"Oh, I know you don't, ma'am. But I was hoping your son…James…hoping he might be of some help."

"How?"

"Well, we heard a rumor that the boy who did it might be locked up in the same jail as James. And a boy like that, you know he can't be right in the head. So I thought, James, he might have heard something…"

"He never said nothin' to me."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't, ma'am. I'll be going down to the jail to talk with him and I just wanted to show the proper respect…speak to his mother first. See, you need to sign this Consent Form for me to get in"—taking what Bostick had given me out of my attaché case—"your son being a minor and all. It just says I'm working on his case. And I wanted to leave this with you"—holding up a thick white envelope where she could see it—"as a token of our respect."

She felt the outside of the envelope. Took the pen I gave her and signed the form.

"Please tell James I'll be by to see him," I said. Leaving the envelope in her hands.

People watched from their front stoops. Looked away when I watched them.

56

T
HE NEXT MORNING, I took Main to Ninety–third, pulled in at the Lake County Juvenile Detention Center Solid brick, cop cars parked in front. Parking lot half full. High chain link fence around the grounds, loops of razor wire across the top. They all look the same.

I showed the Consent Form to the woman on duty behind a glass wall. She asked for some ID, picked up the phone.

I read the signs while I was waiting. Visiting Hours. Rules and Regulations.

A slim, handsome black man came through a side door.

"Mr. Sloane?"

"Yes."

"You're here to see Hightower, I understand. We're full up here, so we don't have a visiting room. We usually use the cafeteria, but the boys are eating now. Visiting hours aren't until ten. But we always try to accommodate attorneys here. You're working for Mr. Bostick?"

"That's right."

"Didn't know he was handling Hightower's case. I'll have to make a couple of phone calls. Be with you in just a minute."

He left me sitting there. A careful man.

Not ten minutes later, he was back. "I'll let you use my office. You'll have complete privacy. Just open the door when you're done, give a call down the corridor."

"Thank you."

A guard brought Hightower in. I stood up, shook hands with him. He went along like he knew the play, took a seat. The guard left.

His head was elongated, forceps marks visible just past his temples, framing small eyes with a yellowish cast. They were bright and flat, like a lizard's. "Who you?"

"My name is Sloane."

"What you want?"

"I want to do something for you, Mr. Hightower. I heard you were a man who knew how to act."

"What's that mean?"

I leaned forward, lighting a smoke, leaving the pack on the desk between us. "You know how the new kids come in this joint. Scared and all? You being the top man, I guess you get to make your pick."

"Maybe."

"Now, some of these kids, you pick them to be your running buddies. And some you pick to play with, right? The weak ones."

"I ain't into that shit, man."

"Of course you're not. Anyone can see you don't play that way. But there's guys in here that do. And they don't do nothing without an okay from the Man, right?"

A quick smile. "Right."

"I wouldn't want you to make a mistake, Mr. Hightower. A man has to know who his friends are, right? Now, I'm a private investigator. And I'm looking for somebody."

"Who?"

"I'm looking for the freak who sniper–snuffed those kids in lovers' lane."

"So why you here?"

"Because he may be in here too. Maybe he's here for something else. And maybe he's got a big mouth, see?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I see."

"So you hear something, you let me know. And it's worth some cash."

"How much cash?"

"Ten large."

"I make that in a week on the street, man."

"You not
on
the street, pal. You're in the jailhouse. Way I hear it, you're going to be here for quite some time. I know how things work in here. You don't want the money, say so. But let me tell you something else too. Remember what I told you about knowing who your friends are? I'm your friend. A good friend. That's what I told your mother."

"My
mother
? Man, if you…"

"I paid her a visit. A nice, respectful visit. And I left her five hundred bucks for you. A token of my respect. Because I'm your friend."

He lit one of my cigarettes, cold as a seventeen–year–old life–taker, but not cool. Letting it show. I went on in the same quiet, soft tone, eyes on his.

"I got another friend in here, Mr. Hightower. His name is Lloyd. He was here before. Just came in again yesterday. They won't let him into population until tomorrow. White kid, about your height, a little bit shorter. Slim build, black hair."

"I know him."

"Yeah. Any friend of mine is a friend of yours, understand? I never let anything happen to my friends. I know what to do if something does."

"You want me to look out for this white boy?" he sneered.

I leaned forward, close to his face. Dropped my voice to a whisper. "I want you to look out for your
self
, okay? I went to see your mother—left her some cash. Anything happens to my friend, I figure maybe I made a mistake about you. Maybe you're not my friend like I thought. That happens, I'll go see your mother again."

His eyes were unvarnished hate. I held them. Let him see the truth. Right down to the deep spot where the blood–spill starts.