Only the Strong (38 page)

When Grimes was not on call, when he was not rolling eagle-eyed through North Gateway and scooping low-life, double-dealing vermin from its deep black streets, he sat on the couch. He looked at the portrait of Cheryl, his only child. It had been three years since leukemia swooped in and swept her up. Seven weeks from diagnosis until that terrible ceremony, the preacher mumbling bullshit (
bullshit!
) about ashes and dust and God's will, Virginia Grace leaning heavily against him under a black umbrella while the rain poured.

On the job, some colleagues—and some criminals too, if pressed—would describe Grimes as spooky. The more charitable among them might call him intense. For the grieving, unbelieving couple, their dear Cheryl still lived and breathed. Not Cheryl was. Cheryl is. Every day the Grimes set a place at the table for their daughter. They continued to cook the meals she favored. They included her in any conversation suitable for 12-year-old ears. They laughed at tender suggestions from concerned relatives, who murmured that Cheryl was not there with them but in some better place, free of pain and suffering. And Virginia Grace cleaned, forever on the lookout for germs, evil bacteria that could assault their little girl, subject her again to the demonic fury of disease.
They were united in this sustained illusion, Detective and Mrs. Grimes. It bound them as tightly and warmly as the love nurtured across nearly two decades of wedded bliss.

Tall and brown-skinned, Grimes was one of two black detectives in the entire city. While his policing skills were beyond dispute, most observers credited his promotion to his mysterious relationship with Ananias Goode. The men had never been seen together, but informed observers swore that Grimes was Goode's inside man. With the support of a cooperative (and well-compensated) precinct captain, he showed up at opportune times to grease the wheels of law enforcement on Goode's behalf. He did indeed receive “bonus pay” for his extracurricular work, but evidence of it would be hard to find. He was squirreling it away for when he was done protecting and serving. He planned to supplement his pension with enough capital to live in other climes, far from annoying relatives who had limited ideas about life and death.

Weeks after receiving the assignment from Goode, while the reformed gangster held babies in Abram H., Grimes sat on his couch like usual. Hands on knees, he admired Cheryl's portrait. Reuben Jones of the Black Swan Sign Shop had created the painting from a handful of photographs, the only ones they had.

Something else, that Reuben Jones. One hell of an artist he is
.

As he got up to work the night shift, Grimes was thinking he needed another portrait of Cheryl. Maybe several. Maybe one for each room in the house.

Sugar. Flour. Bananas. Damn.

Pearl Jordan, soon to be Pearl Tolliver, discovered she was out of vanilla wafers. Strutting into the front room where Guts slept, she nudged him with her foot. Guts opened his eyes and found a foot between his thighs, the big toe flexed suggestively on his crotch. It was perfect, the foot. Slender, brown, exquisitely arched. Nails perfectly polished. He had never noticed women's feet before Pearl. In fact, he hadn't noticed hers until she proved as talented with her toes as she was with her fingers.

She lifted her foot and stroked the front of his pants, all along his inseam.

“I love you from head to toe” had once been just an expression to Guts. He knew better now.

“Hmm?” he said.

“I need you to go to the store.”

He had dozed off while listening to the ballgame on the radio. Rip Crenshaw, closing in on his club's home-run record, had flied out in his only turn at bat. Earlier, Guts had stopped through Afro Day and spoken with the slugger while he was on a break from autographing glossy photos of himself.

“Uh-huh,” Crenshaw said when Guts walked up to him in the presenters' hospitality tent.

“Uh-huh what?”

Crenshaw laughed. “You know exactly what uh-huh I'm talking about.” He leaned close and whispered in Guts's ear. “You've been getting some.”

“That's what you think?”

“That's what I know. You've got your swagger back.”

Guts shrugged. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, but
I
do. That's why you took my advice with that Pearl. Be careful, though. Heed the voice of experience. Too much of that good loving can sap your strength.”

“Doesn't seem to be hurting you any.”

Crenshaw shook his head. “I've sworn off women, remember? That's the lesson I'm supposed to get from losing my ring.”

“It's not lost forever,” Guts said. “It's just temporarily misplaced.”

“No sweat, brother. If it's out there, I know you'll get your hands on it.”

“I haven't given up.”

“It looks good on you, by the way.”

“What's that?”

“Being domesticated. That's what your boy Nifty called it, right? You told me about it that night at the racetrack. He made it sound like you'd come down with a disease. Looks to me like you're in the pink. In the pink every day, I suspect. Did you catch that? Man, I'm one nasty All-Star.”

Now Guts shook his head. “You are nasty. We talked a lot that night. I'm surprised you remembered.”

Crenshaw tapped his temple. “Steel trap,” he said. “You think I'm all reflex and bone structure, right? Let me tell you something. In my head I keep a book on every pitcher I face. Whether he likes to go inside or outside, high or low. Which pitch he'll go to in a jam. I just tell folks it's all in the wrists because I don't want to give away my secrets.”

“Forgive me for underestimating you.”

“Right on. I got to get back to the autograph booth. Can you believe I got a game tonight?”

“You can handle it.”

Crenshaw grinned. “'Preciate the vote of confidence. Say, we get in the World Series, you'll be in the box seat right along the foul line.” They shook hands.

Pearl removed her foot, bringing Guts out of his reverie. Aside from the nail polish, her apron, and her engagement ring, she was in her birthday suit.

“Vanilla wafers,” she said. “For your pudding. Hurry up now.”

Guts groaned. “I was out earlier,” he said. “Why didn't you tell me about the cookies then?”

“Just go get them before I put some clothes on.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, get some milk and eggs.”

“Milk, eggs, and vanilla wafers, coming right up.”

Guts kissed Pearl and headed toward the door. He stole a glance in the mirror before he left. Crenshaw was right. Being domesticated did look good on him.

Sharps had made them wait until dark before they broke in. Now safely inside, PeeWee scanned Artinces's bookshelves in her downstairs library. He heard Nifty overhead, thumping around like Long John Silver. Instead of a peg leg, the triple-jointed freak had a sword strapped to his waist. The weapon was slightly curved, like a cutlass, and nearly reached his feet. The plan had been to get in and out quickly, and neither Sharps nor PeeWee could see how
the sword would help them do that. Nifty had insisted. He had been carrying it everywhere. For protection, he said. In case he needed to “cut a nigger down to size.”

Sharps had cursed and sighed. “We don't have time to argue,” he finally said. “Let's do this.”

PeeWee had never seen so many books outside a public library. He pulled down a well-worn volume and glanced at the title.
A Book of Medical Discourses
. Boring shit, he should have known. When PeeWee had flirted with being a revolutionary, he'd carried around a copy of Eldridge Cleaver's
Soul on Ice
. He'd even cracked it open a couple times. But he'd never gotten past the first paragraph. He was surprised to see it on the shelf in front of him. What's this siddity bitch doing with revolutionary stuff?

When some bright but troubled young men had contacted Artinces about her research on infant nutrition, she actually flew to their Bay Area headquarters and gave them a crash course. They had plans to start a breakfast program. PeeWee had no way of knowing that. Even if he bothered to read the
Gateway Citizen
, he wouldn't have found it there.

Moving to the desk, he found a book spread open. Across two pages, a full-color portrait showed three white men dressed in old-fashioned suits. They stood around a black woman kneeling on a table. She was clad in a ragged sackcloth dress and her hair was wrapped in a red kerchief. Two other black women peered from a behind a curtain stretched across the background. One woman wore a kerchief. The other was bareheaded with long, black, woolly braids. Fascinated, PeeWee sat on a chair and looked closer. The caption read, “J. Marion Sims, Gynecologic Surgeon.” The accompanying text described the “excruciating ordeal” of slave women Lucy, Betsy, and Anarcha. Apparently Dr. Sims had purchased the women and experimented on them repeatedly without anesthesia. Ultimately, his work led to improved gynecological and reproductive health for generations of women. The trio suffered, the book said, so that other women might experience the joy of good health and fertility. PeeWee saw that Artinces had scribbled a note in the margin. “There you are,” it read.

“Weird shit,” he muttered.

Sharps was concealed in the shrubbery when Artinces rode up in Vernon Reid's taxi. He waited quietly while the doctor politely rejected the old man's offer to walk her to her door. He stared, puzzled, as his diminutive prey appeared to have a conversation with herself.

Artinces hesitated. The three women stood resolutely in front of her door, silent and intimidating. The bareheaded one had lost her smile. Artinces took a step forward.

“Lucy. Betsy. Anarcha. See, I know who you are. And I know why you're here. You want to punish me for a mistake I made a long time ago.”

The women remained silent, inscrutable, as if their appearance in this world had come at the price of speech.

“I understand that you didn't endure what you did so that women like me can do what I did. It was a long time ago and I won't define my life by the things I've done wrong. And I won't let you do it either.” Taking a deep breath, she walked right through them.

When she entered the house, a slight movement—of feathers, it turned out—caught her eye. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she turned and looked at Shabazz. Clearly agitated, he hopped in a circle, thrashing his wings.

“Watch yourself,” he said.

Upon hearing the bird, it occurred to Artinces that instead of merely blocking her path, Lucy, Betsy, and Anarcha had actually been trying to keep her out of harm's way, some danger that they had anticipated but to which she was blind. But realization dawned too late.

The glare from the other car's headlights made it hard to see. Charlotte saw two figures advancing on her. Before she could make out their faces, a solid punch to the solar plexus dropped her to her knees. Gasping, she looked up into the leering face of a brown-skinned man, not much older than her, thin, wiry, and
quick. Peering from behind him, Young Mom emerged. The girl she'd fought with on the bus.

“Remember me, bitch?” she jeered. “I told you that me and Bumpy was gonna get your ass!” Still on her knees, Charlotte watched Bumpy raise his weapon. It looked like a table leg wrapped in electrical tape. She closed her eyes and flinched but Bumpy was just faking her out. Instead, he swung at her driver's side window, shattering it. Charlotte thought she'd have a chance if she could just get back to her car. Her bag was on the front seat. Inside it was Percy's gun.

She tried to get to her feet, but Bumpy casually planted his foot in her chest. Extending his leg, he pushed her onto her back. Charlotte began to scoot away from him, backward. Another car entered the street and slowed down. Bumpy waved his club at the driver. “Get on away from here,” he yelled. “Mind your own goddamn business.” The driver took his advice and screeched away.

“Say you sorry,” Bumpy ordered. “Tell her you sorry and I just might let you live.”

“Kiss my ass,” Charlotte replied.

“What did you say?”

“I. Said. Kiss. My. Ass!”

“Aw, this bitch is crazy,” Bumpy decided. “I'm gonna enjoy this.”

“Bumpy!” Young Mom shouted. “Look out!”

Bumpy looked up, puzzled, as another car, headlights blazing, roared up to within three feet of him and braked to a halt. “Who the fuck is that?” Bumpy said. When he got no answer he advanced on the car, swinging his club. “I said, who the fuck—”

The driver's door swung open and smacked into him, knocking him to the ground.

“Bumpy!” Young Mom yelled again. She ran to him. The driver's door shut.

The door on the passenger side opened. Charlotte got up and ran around. She peeked in and saw the plump, familiar face of Guts Tolliver.

“Hurry up,” he demanded. “Get in!”

Charlotte moved toward the seat but remembered her bag. “One second,” she said. She retrieved her bag, took the keys out of the ignition, and returned to Guts.