Season of the Witch (11 page)

Everywhere he went, one of his equally greasy thugs invariably chauffeured him in his distinctive banana yellow Cadillac limousine, the rear windows of which were tinted pink. White wide wall tires completed the otherworldly, ultra-pimp style in which Big Daddy traveled. Finding him was no great feat of detective work since his feeding grounds were well known.

* * *

I took a cruise out to Third Avenue North, and passed under the Interstate. There, in the area that rose up beyond the off and on ramps of the highways that hissed and roared overhead, were row upon row of battered trailer homes, and aging apartments. These gave way to decaying, prefabricated neighborhoods of row houses. The houses were identical in construction, their yards mostly occupied by car bodies rusting in the overgrown grass.

Beyond them were the faceless projects, the open all night liquor and porno stores, the omnipresent homeless and derelicts who stood sentinel outside of them begging for change. Some of them would be Big Daddy’s customers. They would do whatever it took to scratch up enough money for their next joyride, the ticket to be dispensed from the back of a yellow Cadillac, the destination nowhere.

I cruised slowly past the row houses. This had once been a decent neighborhood, before the dealers had come in. Now, it was like a scar, left by the bite of a failed economy. Every time there was a recession, neighborhoods died all over the country and left rotting carcasses like this one that spread malaise and apathy.

In the projects there were groups of youths who stared coldly and hatefully at my passing car. They stood gathered on the corners, near the dumpsters and the mailboxes. Their demeanor was defiant, belligerent. The back wall of the project was a work of art that had known many hands, marked with many colorful logos done in the vibrant rainbow of spray paint that was at once an art and a crime.

The graffiti artists had signed it for years, apparently. Some had written over each other’s work, a declaration of war in gang terms. Blue, red and black were three dominant colors in the art. They stood for the Big Three, the superpowers of gang warfare. The Crips, the Bloods, and the Folks.

It was hard to look inconspicuous in the projects, where every set of eyes scrutinizes every passerby. I stuck to trolling past the porno shops. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. I slowed down and stopped next to one, a battered former bar from the look of the place. Two yellow floodlights dimly illuminated its outside. A man approached my window, and rapped lightly. I lowered it, with some trepidation. He was an older man, a child of the Sixties, no doubt. He looked the quintessential Hippie, with little round glasses and long, stringy hair.

“What’s up, man?” His tone had a practiced, friendly quality.

“Not much.”

“Hey, man, what’re you looking for?”

“I’m looking for Big Daddy. Have you seen him?”

“Big Daddy? No, man. He’s usually around by now; he should show up soon.” He looked around cannily and lowered his voice. “Man, today’s been bad, man. I lost my wallet, can you believe that shit?”

“That’s too bad.”

“Say, man, you seem pretty cool. Do you want some company? We could, like, hang out. If you loan me twenty dollars.”

“Uh, no.”

“Ten?”

“Get lost.”

“Okay, man, that’s cool.” He walked away and stood in shadows, out of the dim glow of the surviving floodlights.

I pulled my old Buick into the parking lot of that fine establishment, and watched the clientele come and go. They were men, single, all of them entering alone. It reminded me of the men going into Lena’s apartment. There might even be some of Lena’s visitors among them. I tried not to think about that.

The refugee from the Summer of Love had been right. The bright yellow whale of a car that I had been waiting on pulled into the parking lot, riding low. The windows were heavily tinted. The car pulled to a halt in the parking lot, a window rolled halfway down. Momentarily, the hippie and two other bedraggled figures strolled up to the car.

Two men got out of the car. One was Vince, his fake machismo restored since our last meeting. The four of them formed into a brief huddle. Consultations were transpiring. There were low murmurs, and the figures moved in a group to the rear of the video store, apparently to transact some business. I wondered how the hippie would be paying his bill. A lone silhouette remained in the back of the car.

I watched the figures mill around the rear of the building for a few minutes. There appeared to be some intense haggling going on. I heard their muffled voices grow louder; they were on the verge of arguing. One of the figures suddenly separated and dashed across the empty railroad tracks that ran behind the store. It was the Hippie, the one with the lost wallet. Seems like he had made a decision on how to pay. The two men who had come with Big Daddy shouted and went after him.

I got out and walked towards the entrance to the video store, staring straight ahead. I passed close to the Caddy. The window in the back was still lowered. I slid my gun out of my pocket, keeping it close to my side. I reached in and opened the door and slid in beside the figure. He was a squat man, with a very blocky build. He had curly, close-cropped, dark hair and a sparse, thin mustache. He also had yellowish, rough-looking skin. A blunt nose squatted between two small, brown eyes.

“Who in the hell are you?” he said.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. I’m Longville. You sent your man Vince to talk to me, remember?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I put the gun to his temple. “This help your memory any?”

He stared hard at the building around which his flunkies had disappeared. He blinked his eyes slowly

“Somebody left the party without paying. Your friends will probably be a while.”

The man seemed to be weighing his options, in some cloudy way. A contemptuous little smirk played across his face. “There’s a couple of thousand in my jacket pocket. You can have it.” His eyes began to look slightly glazed. I realized his nose was dripping. He probably wasn’t thinking very clearly. Suddenly, he burped, and it was a thick, moist sound.

“I’m not car jacking, you moron. I’ve come to tell you to leave the girl alone.”

“Girls. I got lots girls.”

“Lena. You leave her alone or next time I’ll put you in a box.”

“You . . . can take the money . . .” He burped again, and this time a thick blob of yellow mucus ran down from the corner of his mouth.

Full of disgust, I pushed him away from me.

“Just leave her alone.”

I got out and shut the door. I was walking to my car and I heard a shout.
 

“Hey! You!”

I turned in time to see Vince running toward me from the direction of the tracks. His friend was nowhere in sight. Full of rage, I stood there and let him come. Something gleamed in his hand, a knife, I thought at first, but the gleam was a dull yellow. Brass knuckles. He swung while he was still moving, telegraphing his move by drawing back before he ever got to me.

I ducked under his clumsy, meaty swing, and gave him everything I had directly in the right kidney. He deflated immediately, but tried to lash out at me with a booted right foot. I grabbed the foot and came up, sending him sprawling on the gravel. He got up shakily on all fours. Unable to resist a second time, I kicked him squarely in the rear, sending him sprawling again.

“Next time, deliver my message.”

I got in the car and drove away from there. I felt pumped, but I really hadn’t accomplished my goal with Big Daddy. He was too out of his mind on coke for me to scare. For a minute, I wished I had shot him; it wasn’t like he would have been missed. But I couldn’t do that. I had said what I had come to say. It wasn’t much. But for now, it would have to do.

Chapter 9

Luckily, Hazelwood’s house was a small one, set well back from the street. A drive by revealed it wasn’t being watched. All of the lights were out. Don’t tell anybody, but I own a set of lock picks, and I am skilled in their use. I took these with me and let myself in at 1600 Angel Drive. I snooped noiselessly around among the treasures of the dear, departed detective. In the ghostly blue light of the streetlight I perceived a small rectangular object beneath an end table, a small book, which I pocketed.

The living room was all in earth tones, with lots of blonde wood furniture. Overall, the effect was pretty tasteful for a single, hard-nosed cop. But it wasn’t too expensive, not for someone with a little extra money coming in to pad his expenses. There was some art on the walls, pictures and prints of paintings by famous artists.

Signs of a woman’s touch, maybe?

There is a sixth sense, I believe, which we all possess, and most of us ignore. I’m no mystic, but the little voice speaks occasionally. This mysterious inner voice warned me not to go into Hazelwood’s bedroom, but instead to go outside and check it out through the window first. But I second-guessed myself; I reasoned that if I did that, I might be observed by the neighbors. Instead, I decided it better to remain inside the house.

I entered the bedroom and my head exploded. My vision was immediately blurred. Through a wall of indescribable pain, I perceived a slender figure striking at me. One hand held a tire iron. I struck blindly, with all my strength, and felt contact, heard a grunt. Without thought, I turned and stumbled out of the room; the world was growing dim, fast. With some small, distant part of my mind, I wondered if I was dying.

Then I fell down into darkness. It had no end.

* * *

I was in a room as big as the world. And it was getting even bigger. The wind was howling, and a voice was speaking, a voice telling me that we had an arrangement, that someone had to suffer, and it was my choice, someone else or me. I looked to see who was speaking. It was the devil walking next to me, both of us striding down the long black avenues, and I grew smaller and weaker while he grew larger and stronger and whispered his lies, keeping all of the secrets and the answers for himself.

He dissolved into the darkness from which he had come, and I dreamed of the dead, or those dead to me, and of the nameless ghosts that walked the streets of the city in broad daylight. Sometimes I thought that I heard singing. I faded in and out of reality. There were voices of the slain, of the living, voices strange and familiar, threatening and kind.

“Mr. Longville?” A new voice entered my mind. This voice was faint, but somehow closer than the others had been. It was calling my name, and seemed as if it had been calling me for a long, long time. It seemed to have an echo, and the voice spoke to me from a fantastic height. Perhaps it was the voice of God.

“Roland?” The sound intensified, and I heard a faraway booming that got louder and closer. It was the pounding of my own heart. Against all laws of physics, my eyes were creaking open. It was like light suddenly let into a manhole that sends the rats scurrying. My head groaned in protest for the cover to be replaced. God went right on talking. “Roland, you’ve been injured, but you’re going to be all right.”

I now saw two vague blue figures bending over me. As I looked at them, they began to acquire shape, and details. They were two doctors, in surgical scrubs. The one speaking was an older Asian man, wearing bifocals. Beside him stood a much younger white man, holding a clipboard. He looked like a college kid. Both were smiling. I found this somehow unsettling.

“I am Dr. Hama, Mr. Longville.” He didn’t bow, which in my semi-lucid state I half expected. “And this is my intern, Dr. Gleason. You were brought in by EMS. You have a concussion.”

I tried to focus on Dr. Hama, but his face began to lose its cohesion. Both doctors’ figures became indistinct, melting into bluish blurs. I felt myself sinking into that bottomless manhole, the cover sliding back into place. Hama’s voice floated down to me as I sank into oblivion.

“You must rest now, Mr. Longville.” Hama’s voice followed me down into the void. “Everything will be fine.”

I thought one last time of Lena and struggled to hold on, but my strength began to fail. The darkness came again, and this time I dreamed of nothing.

* * *

When I awoke again, a beautiful young nurse was adjusting my I.V. She was a light-skinned black girl, and her face slowly merged into that of Patricia, my ex-wife. She bent over me, smiling, saying something that I did not understand. I drifted off into darkness again.

Finally, I awoke and found that I was no longer tired or groggy. But I felt extremely weak, and my mind was moving very slowly. Where was I? The hospital. I had almost been killed. Someone had cracked open my head. I was hurt and weak, but I would live.

Names came floating up from the Stygian darkness, to which they had been vanquished by my long sleep. Harry. Danny. Eve. Lena. The last one caused a feeling of near despair. What day was it? I had no idea. In a few seconds, the beautiful young nurse I had seen before came in with a chart in her hand. She looked at me quizzically and consulted the name on the chart.

“Well, Mr. Longville, good to see you up and around this morning.”

“Nurse . . .” My own voice startled me. It sounded like the voice of a very old man. I cleared my throat, which did little good, “—how long have I been here?”