Trip Wire (15 page)

“Who was the Bible guy you and Wilt used to talk about?”

“Bible guy?”

“Yeah. All you had to do was mention it, and the two of you would go apeshit laughing.”

“Oh, him. The Read Your Bible guy. He was a nut who used to preach at the el stop at 63rd and South Park. ‘Read your Bible. Ask the Lord for the understanding. And he will give it to you.’ It was all he ever said. He was around when I was ten, and he’s there to this day. Wilt used to see him, too. The guy must be a hundred years old by now, and the last time I got off the el at that stop, he was still there.”

“I want some secrets with you, too,” he said. “I want to have some things we can laugh about someday.”

“Maybe we will, someday. We sure have enough to cry about, don’t we?”

When I awoke at five in the morning, I was so foggy I could barely find the floor with my feet. I had smoked an awful lot of grass. And now I was ravenous.

The linoleum floor icy cold under my bare feet, I dug around in the fridge until I found a yogurt, carried it into the front room. Sunrise. I remembered the morning I’d watched the sun come up at the Wisconsin farmhouse. We were having such a great weekend. Why had I felt so funny as I stood alone in the attic? Then I remembered. It had something to do with Wilton. But then, everything did. Let go, Cliff had said. Jesus God, when would I be ready to let go of Wilt?

That weekend, he had been morose one minute and then hyper the next; angry, then calm, then jubilant. Somehow, I didn’t think it was the drugs.

I’d never seen him dance so much. He and Clea were putting on a real show, teaching the others how to do the old dance step called the roach.

“What’s got into you?” I said. “I thought you said all you wanted to do up here was sleep and eat gingerbread.”

He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just worked out my Oedipal thing,” he said. “I figured out a way to castrate my pop. I’m going to slaughter that pompous prick. Squish . . . Squash . . . yeah, baby. Kill that roach!”

The others screamed with laughter. In their cases, it definitely was the drugs.

“What the hell are you talking about, Wretched?”

“Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry, sweetheart. I just mean metaphorically. You know what brother Oscar say: Each man kill de thang he love.”

I did have to chuckle at that line. “Brother Oscar” was Oscar Wilde. But Wilton’s dad was named Oscar, too. When I tried to question him again, he wouldn’t let me talk. “Get your ass in gear and dance, girl.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Clea said, pressing herself against Wilt. “Get those big titties out here and show us what you got.”

An hour or so later, I caught a glimpse of him in the bedroom he was sharing with Mia. They were on some old cushions on the floor, his head in her lap. She looked up at me and smiled, then pressed a finger to her lips. Shhhh. He was sleeping.

Now, how do you castrate, kill a man like Oscar Mobley . . . metaphorically? He was rather small in stature, nothing to look at, but proud of his accomplishments and his place in the community. If you wanted to ruin him, what did you rob him of? His reputation, his dignity, his money? All of which he had in abundance.

I was yearning for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t make any. I thought the aroma might wake Cliff, and I needed more time alone to think. Also, I knew how unhappy he’d be to find me still trying to unknot the facts surrounding Wilton’s death.

Hope Mobley had told me that Wilt and his father were arguing bitterly the last few weeks. She’d hear snatches of the fights they were having behind closed doors. Wilton was doing something that threatened Mobley’s law practice. Isn’t that what she thought she heard?

Position. Dignity. Money. Most things came down to money, didn’t they? That was what we abhorred as a generation. We hated living in a world where money came before human life, before principles, before loyalty, honor, law. Some people say the civil rights movement is being bought out with money. Some were saying—notably a Chicago PD detective named Norris—that money was at the root of the murder of Alvin Flowers, head of the rogue organization called the August 4 Committee.

Money. Was it really that crude, that simple?

I found that piece of cheap paper with the August 4 logo. I turned it over and began to sketch something from memory, a dim memory to be sure, almost like automatic writing: the shape of a thick, oddly shaped key.

I dressed while I dialed the number at Woody and Ivy’s.

“Cass, why are you calling so early? It’s barely six o’clock.”

“I’m sorry to wake you. You know when I asked you to do something for me a few days ago? You found out about the Riegels for me.”

“Yes.”

“I need you to follow through on the second part of that favor. Now.”

I heard a sigh of exasperation. “Jesus Lord, Cassandra. You’re not still harping on that house in Kent, are you? And the stolen keys? I did everything you asked me to do, child. I went to the funeral and spoke to Hope Mobley. Now the truth has come out about her son. If she can accept it, why can’t you?”

“I’m not going to bug her, Ivy. I just want to give her something.”

“What?”

“Something that belonged to Wilt. I’m sure she’d want to have it. I just need you to call and ask if she could see me for a second—without her husband knowing about it.”

“Her husband?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t appreciate me dropping in there again.”

“Goddammit, Cassandra, why can’t you leave the poor woman alone?”

“Will you do it? Please. I won’t ask for anything else.”

“At six in the morning, girl?”

“All right. Wait until seven.”

“Cass, have you packed up—”

“Thanks, Ivy. See you later.”

I’m a terrible girl. Lie. Lie. Lie.

CHAPTER NINE

TUESDAY

1

I woke Sim up, too. I hadn’t figured on seeing him again this soon. But I needed him.

He didn’t pick me up in the Lincoln this time. He was driving borrowed wheels. We stuffed our faces with sweet rolls and store-bought coffee while he drove south.

Maybe it was the maid’s day off. Hope Mobley opened the door herself this time. And this time I could see Wilton in her more clearly. She had his eyes and forehead and his tawny coloring.

“Cassandra,” she said. “You have a pretty name. I thought if I ever had a girl, I might name her that.”

“I’m intruding again,” I said. “But I wouldn’t do it if this wasn’t important.”

“I’m sure you think so. Your aunt told me how much you take things to heart. I like her.”

She caught me peeping around the big entrance hall. “I understand you’re worried about seeing Oscar. Don’t be. He isn’t here.”

“Oh?”

“No. He’s at the Drake. Until we can decide what our future will be. Whether we have different futures, I should say. You don’t have to stand in the doorway, either. Come in. You have something for me, I believe.”

With no further explanation, I took out my mammy-made sketch, handed it over. “Is that something you recognize?”

It took her a minute. “I believe so. But what on earth is the meaning of this?”

“What does it open, Mrs. Mobley?”

“This is too much.”

“Please tell me.”

“A kind of safe house. A bomb shelter my father insisted we install up at the house in Kent. My God, that was years ago. But how do you know about this key?”

“Wilton had it.”

“Wilton had it? But why? I mean, he couldn’t have. There are only two copies of this key. Mine is in a bureau drawer somewhere and Oscar’s is in his desk.”

“I bet one of them is missing.”

She took a step away from me then, suspicious. “Whose secrets are you trying to get at, young woman—Wilton’s or Oscar’s?”

“I don’t know. Maybe both. I’m not out to trash anybody’s memory. But I’m not going to stop until I know what went down.”

“No, I guess you won’t. But isn’t it time you let them rest—my son and the girl?”

“You think they’re resting? They’re not.”

I couldn’t stand the look on her face, and hated myself for putting it there.

“Go and look for the keys,” I said. “Please.”

2

Sim drove steadily and fast, at least fifteen miles over the limit. Hunched over the wheel, he was an odd mix of relaxation and attentiveness. More like a fighter pilot than a guy ferrying a lady to the country.

For a few minutes I let myself pretend I was Hope Mobley in better days, when her prosperous, lucky family was young and together. A lovely young wife on a leisurely car ride to her country place.

It was one in the afternoon when we left the highway and pulled onto the road heading north. We stayed on that until we reached the rough, rock-strewn one that led to the house.

The Mobley place stood at the end of the path; it was big and lonely looking. The wood on the upper story was splintering from wind damage, and the place needed a paint job.

“She said it’s past the house,” I told Sim. “About a half mile west of here. This way.”

He followed in my footsteps. “Why is it so far away from the house?”

“They told Oscar Mobley it should be built near some natural shelter, so he had it installed close to the dunes. To dilute the shock waves from the nuclear blast—would you believe? I guess that’s how people were thinking then. They expected Russia to try to wipe out the state of Illinois. Hope said she told her father it was preposterous, but he wouldn’t listen.”

The terrain became hilly, and soon we had entered what looked like an old creek bed. “There,” I said. “It should be about a hundred yards from here.”

I started to walk fast, and within five minutes we were staring at two moldy steel doors lying flat to the ground.

Oscar’s key. Hope’s key. The issue was moot now. We didn’t need one. The doors were flung open. We looked at the gaping blackness they bracketed.

“What you think is down there?” he said. Neither of us wanted to be the first to descend into the unknown.

Finally Sim made a move. He took the first step down the wet stone staircase. Once we were at the bottom of it, we could see nothing.

“There’s gotta be a light,” I said. “Feel around for it.”

All at once, a string of lights popped on. He’d found the switchplate.

The inside of the chamber was like an oversize sardine can. The space was rectangular. Two doors at the far end—toilets, maybe. Cabinets on the wall. A camp stove. Bottled water in one corner. Propane canisters. Fire extinguisher.

And on the ground, close to the stairs, was an upended Mosler safe. The door to that was open, too, and the safe was on its side.

“That belong to the husband?” Sim asked.

“Good bet.”

Sim bent to inspect it. “Yeah, look,” he said, pointing to three small holes near the tumbler. “This sucker been drilled open. Wonder how much green was in this mother.”

Only then did I begin to notice the trash on the floor. Beer and soda cans and balled-up waxed paper, a dozen cigarette butts. There was also a folding table and a few wooden milk crates that had obviously been used for seating.

Sim was motioning to me. I joined him at the far corner of the chamber, where he was using the toe of his boot to poke at the three duffel bags lined up next to one another like mushrooms at the base of a rotted tree.

“Army issue,” he said.

I tipped one over, undid the elaborate rope knot that fastened the duffel and began to shake out the contents. The clatter was so loud I jumped away in alarm. But then I could see they were just rods of metal and wood. “What is this junk?” I said.

Sim seemed to be intrigued with the stuff. I went about opening another duffel while he got down on his haunches. When I looked up a minute later, Sim was no longer squatting. He was on his feet, and he was raising the business end of a semiautomatic.

I fell away from him, shrieking. “What the fuck are you doing? Where did that come from?”

“What you called the junk in this bag. I just put it together. Nothing to it.”

“How do you know how to do that? You were in the army?”

“My brother was. Korea.” He spread the bag open for me to look inside then. “There’s five disassembled carbines in there. Plenty of ammo, too. Even a few smoke grenades. Somebody was expecting company down here.”

There weren’t any guns in the second bag. What we saw when we emptied it were telephone books for a variety of American cities, road maps, manila folders with densely scribbled notes inside them.

I opened one of them, spread the pages out. I saw the word
COPY
stamped across most of the sheets. Sim was reading over my shoulder. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

“Yeah, it does. It’s a DD-214.”

“A what?”

“A soldier gets one when they discharge him. That’s your service record. You need it to get a job after you get out of the army.”

“Like I said, this makes no sense.”

One of the maps was for Lincoln, Nebraska. There was another for Shreveport, Louisiana. But not all the maps were for your typical American town. I was holding a hand-drawn one, done in colored pencil, almost childlike. It was shaped like a giant fantail shrimp. Here and there on the map were crosses and notations.

“You know what that is?” Sim asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, I do. It’s Vietnam.”

That third bag was the kicker. The end. When Sim turned it over and shook it, nothing came out at first. So I reached in. I felt the slick surface of the material, pulled at it. A dark blue jacket with a heavy zipper and a fake fur collar plopped out of the duffel. The collar wasn’t the only fake thing about the garment. A badge was on the front of the coat. I wasn’t an expert on police gear, but the metal seemed too lightweight to be real. A fake Chicago PD shield.

I was holding it in my hands, but I could feel the slick, wet surface of that jacket on my neck and face, scent the breath of the big man who’d mauled me in the apartment that night. And I felt the powerful hand in the small of my back as I was shoved into the closet.

I flung the coat onto the ground. Sim was now shaking other items out of the duffel. A couple of dozen pamphlets featuring the August 4 logo flopped out. And there were several photos of white men, some young, others older, some in uniform, some in civvies. But the notes written on the back of each shot told me all the men had been U.S. Army officers: name, rank, length of service, company, unit, date of discharge, where in ’Nam each had seen action, last known address in the States.

I had them all spread out, looking in vain at each face for a clue as to why they were in that bag. One of them began to speak to me a little. I flipped his photo over and looked at the data on him. And yes, there was a DD doohickey for him, too.

A sourness shot up from my stomach then. I could feel the poison in my throat. I leaned forward, sick and rattling like a teacup on its saucer.

3

“Drive faster,” I said.

“No, I’m not gonna drive no faster. You better get a grip on yourself.”

“I’m in a goddamn grip,” I said. “I’m just about being strangled.”

“Dig, Cassandra. The guns, that writing and stuff—looks to me like you found proof everything the police say is the gospel truth. Your boy Wilton was in with those people. They had ah arsenal in there. Of course they the ones who took all the money his daddy had in that safe. Of course they woulda offed him if he was gonna inform on them. Just like the cops announced.”

“Yep, so it seems.” I was not going to argue with him. “As a matter of fact, I was wrong to blame the department for a lot of the stuff that’s happened. They’re just a bunch of choirboys really, trying to keep the city safe.”

“What you looking like that for? You sad ’cause it turns out your boy was a bad motherfucker?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no.”

4

Sim parked in front of our building.

“You’d better not come upstairs with me,” I said.

“Why? I thought—”

I saw the disappointment on his face. He had been expecting another afternoon of dynamite sex, dynamite reefer, and Motown sounds.

“I know. You thought you’d be grooving with me. Not this time.”

“Oh. Okay. But why you was in such a hurry to get back?”

“A funeral,” I answered. “I didn’t get to go to Wilt’s. Wouldn’t want to miss this one.”

“Say what?”

“Nothing, Sim. I better go.” I kissed him then. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Cassandra, you are one crazy broad.”

“Bye, Sim.”

“Look here. Where can I get some smokes around here?”

“Turn left at the corner. There’s a store next to the Cuban restaurant.”

After he was gone, I stood in the street, looking up at the apartment window above the commune. The room where Wilt and Mia died. It was just as Cliff had said: Soon we’d all be leaving the big noisy apartment on Armitage. No matter what was waiting for me down the line, I knew that the six months in the Armitage Avenue apartment would loom large, stay with me for all my life. I ached and sorrowed for my friends Wilton and Mia, and even for Barry.

The apartment was warm and friendly-feeling when I finally went inside. Cliff and Jordan were drinking cocoa and playing dominoes at the kitchen table.

Cliff rose to give me a kiss, proprietary hand running down my arm. He even unbuttoned my coat for me. “I missed you. Why’d you take off like that, before I got up?”

“I was shopping for your Christmas present,” I told him. “It’s a surprise.”

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, and placed the glossy photograph of Lieutenant Cary Tobin, Cliff’s older brother, on top of the domino game.

I watched the smile on his lips fade to nothing. “Where’d you get that?”

“What happened, Cliff? Why did you do it?”

“Jordan,” he said woodenly. “Go back with your dad now, okay? I’ll come get you in a while, buddy.”

I watched in silence as he argued and cajoled and finally barked at the kid to make him go. Jordan was blubbering, but finally he did leave, the front door slamming shut behind him.

He wasn’t the only one crying. Cliff was leaking tears as well.

I walked over to him and slapped him with all my strength. “You killed them, didn’t you? You slit their throats. And somehow it’s all tied up with your brother. Isn’t it?”

When he didn’t answer, I walloped him again. “You
fucked
me, Cliff. You killed my best friend and then you fucked me.”

“I love you.” Voice atremble.

“You say that again and I’ll kill
you.
Tell me what this is all about. Now.”

“They murdered Cary,” he said.

“August 4, you mean. They killed your brother.”

“Yes. He didn’t die in ’Nam. They killed him at home, in Bristol, four weeks after he got out of the army.”

“Why?”

“There was a racist group among the officers in ’Nam. Some of them were in the Klan. They had this conspiracy to get black GIs. These officers would send them on suicide missions. Some of the black troops were out-and-out murdered, but the white guys made it look like they were killed in action. All kinds of horrible things were done to those soldiers. Out of hate. Resentment and hate.

“Alvin Flowers was over there. He knew what these white officers were doing. When he got out of the army and came home, he started this movement, August 4. They were trying to get black servicemen to desert, refuse to fight for America. That’s what they said they were about. But they were also tracking down the racists—and paying them back.”

“Jesus. And your brother was one of the racists?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? If he didn’t do anything, why should the August 4 people kill him?”

Cliff began to laugh then, hopelessly. “They made a mistake. Alvin Flowers and his people had to have inside help. Somebody who could send them army records, keep them up-to-date with who was getting sent home, where people lived, and all. There must have been a mix-up somewhere, though. Cary got marked as one of the racists, and the August 4 people killed him. They killed him for nothing, Sandy. For nothing. My mom didn’t raise us to hate anybody.”