On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery (14 page)

15

“Hey Duff, didya hear
about the Polish water polo tragedy?” Sam asked on his way to the coffee machine.

“Mornin’, Sam,” I said.

“It was so sad,” Sam said. “The horses all drowned.”

Monique was furiously writing in her charts getting ready for the day. She was so disciplined it fascinated me. I envied her self-control. I had tried to emulate her work habits and I just couldn’t. Fifteen minutes of dedication was always too much and I’d find something else to do.

“Morning, ’Nique.”

“Hey Duff,” she didn’t look up from her writing. “Didya hear?”

“About what?”

“Three more guys got beat in Franklin Park last night. Two of the guys are on my caseload,” she said.

“Aw, shit. Who?”

“Sandy K., and Abdul A.,” she said. Monique almost never used a client’s last name.

“Any word on them?”

“They’re conscious but both will need surgery. They have no suspects, of course.”

“Have you heard from Gabbibb?”

“I refuse to talk to him,” she said. “He believes I’m less than him because I’m a woman, I’m black, and I’m lesbian.”

“He’s a fuckin’ asshole,” I said.

’Nique got back to work, and I sat there and thought. Five guys all severely beaten and no suspects. It appeared to be a simple hate crime. Simple, yeah—real simple.

I called Rudy to see what I could find out. He was at his desk and speaking to me through his jelly donut, which was about as disgusting as anything you could imagine.

“Duff, I’m not sure what to tell you,” he paused to swallow. I hated listening to Rudy chew because it was just gross. “Gabbibb is the treating doctor and he barely speaks to me. I know there’s multiple fractures and cerebral bleeding in at least two of them. All three will require extensive surgery.”

I thanked Rudy and signed off before he could start his second donut. I had some information and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. Actually, I wasn’t sure if there was anything I could do with it.

With a little breathing room from last night’s all-night record keeping, I had a chance to do some goofing off. I had ten charts ready for the Michelin Woman’s audit. Of course, that meant I had sixty-five charts woefully behind, but I’d get to them someday. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Trina walking past my cubicle.

“Morning, Duff,” she said, like she did every morning.

“Morning,” I said.

She winked at me and went right back to her desk. I got the sense that though Trina was young and hurtin’ over Lou, our late-night rendezvous wasn’t going to be a
Fatal Attraction
deal. It was something she needed—hell, who am I kidding—it was something I needed. Neither of us regretted it, but we probably wouldn’t make a habit of it. That was okay with me, very okay.

I decided to play around on the computer. I’m no geek, but I know my way around a little bit. I decided to do some searches on the key words I’d gotten from Walanda and the jail. I went to Google and typed in “Webster.” It yielded 3,803,000 hits. Even I didn’t have that much time to goof off at work. Next I entered “Web.” That got me 1,803,000 hits—significantly less but way too much.

I tried “spider”—1,706,000 hits.

This wasn’t going to work. I was going to need some help. I knew where to go, but it was going to have to wait until after work.

It dawned on me that through all of this I knew very little about Shondeneisha, Walanda’s kidnapped, or at least allegedly kidnapped, stepdaughter. I got out Walanda’s file and looked for next of kin information and anything else that might tip me off. It was one of the few times I ever wished I had taken copious notes.

The face sheet on Walanda’s file listed six relatives. Four were men and were added as she went from relationship to relationship. There was also a half sister that came in for a couple of sessions early in Walanda’s treatment but ultimately gave up on her. She got into Al-Anon, which told people to “detach with love.” It made sense for the relatives of addicts to detach, otherwise they’d wind up going down with the addict. What the therapy books don’t tell you is that in real life an overinvolved relative who never gives up is often exactly what an addict needs.

The self-help groups call that “enabling” and insist “tough love” is the way to go. Maybe, but I’ve seen my share of lives that were saved by what they call an enmeshed family member who just couldn’t let their addicted loved one go. They followed them around, bailed them out of jail, and even threatened dealers—whatever it took. Often it failed, sometimes it didn’t, but telling someone to “detach with love” always felt a little too simple for me.

Jacquie Turner, Walanda’s half sister, lived across town from the ghetto Walanda lived in. She was an office manager at an accounting firm and took classes at the local business college. From what I remember, she had managed to create a life for herself that Walanda couldn’t. It wasn’t clear whether she received the same abuse as a kid, but it was possible. Sometimes abusers focus on only one child, sometimes they don’t. Just the same, Jacquie had a career, lived in a nice apartment, paid her bills on time, and seemed to be what us social workers called “functional.”

I tried her at the accounting office.

“Good morning, Noonan, Malinowski, and Platt Accounting Offices, Jacquie speaking. How may I direct your call?” She had that professionally efficient tone to her voice. Not quite cheerful but certainly pleasant.

“Jacquie, this is Duffy Dombrowski at Jewish Unified Services. Do you have a minute?”

“Good morning, Mr. Dombrowski,” she hesitated. “I’m the receptionist, so I can’t really talk for long. How can I help you?”

“First of all, I’m very sorry about Walanda,” I said.

“I am too, but Walanda made her choices,” she said.

“Before she died, she spoke to me about a stepchild named Shondeneisha. Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Only that she’s the daughter of a man named Bertrand, another addict she lived with. They had the son together that got murdered.”

“Do you know where Bertrand is now?”

“I have no idea. He was also an addict. The last I knew, he was drifting from city to city looking for welfare benefits.”

“Walanda thought Shondeneisha had been kidnapped by someone named ‘Webster.’ Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”

“No, I don’t. Look, Mr. Dombrowski,” Jacquie’s tone changed almost imperceptibly. “I loved my sister, but years ago I had to detach from her. I tried and tried and she kept going back. I really didn’t know much about her life for the last three years. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really should go.”

“I understand, Jacquie,” I said. “Thanks for speaking with me.”

Jacquie was no help. In some ways I don’t blame her for distancing herself from the cesspool of a life that Walanda lived. She was doing something positive, and maybe her way of changing things meant being the best she could be. Honorable, even if your sister winds up dead, I suppose.

After work I got Al, and we took a trip over to Walanda’s old house. I hoisted Al onto his side of the Eldorado and we headed out. I threw in some Elvis from ’56. It was the original rockabilly sound that changed the face of music forever. To me, listening to Scotty Moore play the guitar riff to “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again” was just about as good as music got—simple, with feeling.

I was singing along, curling my lip in the exact right spots and adding the bass to my voice when it was needed, when Al started to mess up my rhythm by playing with the power windows. He would plop a fat paw on the switches and then marvel at the hum of the descending window. He did it over and over again, paying absolutely no attention to my interpretation of the King’s music. Eventually, Al allowed the window to go all the way down and he stuck his head out the window. The wind blew his ears back as he surveyed the passing landscape with a watchful eye.

I parked in front of Walanda’s old place, hooked Al up to the leash, and took a walk. Al’s tail started wagging, and he started barking when he realized where we were. I hadn’t thought about Al returning to his old home, and it was kind of sad.

It was the kind of neighborhood where people interacted from stoop to stoop, porch to porch, or up and down the sidewalk. Back in the late sixties, urban planners started building high-rise projects in this neighborhood in an attempt to homogenize the poor. That way they could be kept out of sight and up in the air, and they wouldn’t be on the street being offensive to the eyes of the suburbanites. The projects removed the way people from the inner city interact, and that’s why they were destined to be a failure from the start. Sure, high-rises were a tad more antiseptic, but they took away the humanity of everyday life and attempted to compartmentalize lives. If you don’t believe me, go to the projects in your town and see how they’re doing. Most are abandoned or turned into something else.

Walanda’s neighborhood was always full of activity. It wasn’t all positive activity, but the idea that everything going on in the streets of urban areas is drug traffic, crime, or drug use is ridiculous. The street can be a wonderland of personal interactions, both positive and negative.

Kids create playgrounds in their imaginations, using what the city has to offer for their amusement, and it seldom has to do with slides and swing sets. Mothers catch up on hairstyles, recipes, and childcare. Adolescents play hide-and-seek with their hormones as packs of girls and boys spy each other up and down the streets in coming-of-age rituals. Old folks go to church or go through their daily routines in the neighborhoods they’ve spent their whole lives in.

A group of women were gathered three houses up from Walanda’s old place, chatting in a circle. Usually, when a white guy approaches a group of black people in an almost all-black neighborhood, there’s a guarded resistance and for good reason. White people usually mean police or some sort of other authority who seldom venture into these neighborhoods to pass out sweet potato pie. I had some slack because I was known as a decent guy who did social work and as a fighter. Most of the local boxers were brothers and I had some respect there as well.

One of the three ladies was a recovering crack addict named Laila. I hadn’t been her caseworker, but I had run a few groups she was in and she liked me.

“Hey Duffy,” Laila said. “What you doin’ out here in the hood?”

“I wanted to see what I could find out about Walanda,” I said.

Al jumped up her leg, getting about as far as her knee. Laila returned the affection. Clearly they were old friends.

“That girl was a shame,” the woman to Laila’s right said. She was very dark skinned and had tight little braids in her hair. “Started to have it together and then lost it even worse. For real, she shoulda stayed in the Nation.”

“You guys ever see her with somebody she shouldn’t have been with?” I asked.

“That child never stopped bein’ with people she shouldn’t been with, Duff,” Laila said.

“I guess that was a stupid question. Ever hear her talk about ‘Webster’ or ‘The Webster’?”

“She went on and on about some ‘Webster’ taking her stepdaughter Shony for hoin’,” the third woman said. She was lighter skinned and freckled with a short and very wide nose. “I don’t know what that girl was talkin’ ’bout.”

“Did you know what she was talking about?” I asked the darker woman.

“Nah, that girl crazy from the crack.”

“Anybody ever hear about ‘Webster’ or anybody like that pimping?”

“All her men were pimps and she went on the street when she need to get high. Everybody know that,” said Laila.

“Anything having to do with ‘Webster’?”

“No,” the light-skinned woman said. “But there was one ugly white dude used to come ’round givin’ her crack. Big ugly-ass biker dude. They’d go for a ride or something. I don’t know if he was pimping her or what.”

“I never heard no ‘Webster’ stuff,” the dark woman said.

“Tell you what, though, that Shony a pretty girl,” said Laila. “Like a young Whitney Houston. She wasn’t Walanda’s, but Walanda loved her.”

“Shony’s a good girl too. Sings in church, volunteers with the old folks, and gets good grades,” said the light-skinned woman.

“That’s right. My gramma is in the county home, and Shony and the other church girls come sing for her every Sunday afternoon,” said the darker woman.

“Duff, that girl was Walanda’s hope,” Laila said. “It was like Walanda was goin’ put every ounce of whatever positive she had left inside her for that child to make up for all of the years she’s done wrong.”

“I think she was also givin’ Shony all the love that she lost when Benjamin was killed in that home,” the light-skinned woman shook her head. “That was a damn shame, him gettin’ murdered. Walanda ain’t never been right after that.”

“Anyone know where Shony’s father is?” I asked.

“Her natural father was that crackhead Bertrand. He ain’t around no more. Walanda was livin’ with Tyrone for a while with Shony,” Laila said.

“Tyrone? That man is a stone-cold pervert,” said the dark-skinned woman.

“Crackhead sell his mother for a rock. I heard he moved to the country or somethin’. That boy need to be locked up,” said the light-skinned woman.

“He’s that bad?” I said.

“Walanda was always afraid he’d turn Shony out,” the dark woman said. “He might too, if it meant getting’ his ragged ass some crack.”

“Know if he did?”

“Don’t think so. You know that Walanda was crazy like a fox sometime. She took a bread knife to him once. Cut up his ass good too,” said the dark woman.

“And no one knows about ‘Webster’ except her going on about it?”

The three of them shook their heads. I thanked them and headed back to the Eldorado. When we passed Walanda’s house, Al started for the porch and I had to tug him to come with me. He let out a couple of high-pitched whines and he reluctantly came along.