Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (12 page)

“Okay.” Jessica and Robyn picked up their glasses and went back to the kitchen, but stood close by the door—which they had left open a crack—and listened as Lana Sue continued. “You left Fort McClellan two days before the end of March in 1919 and returned to Weed because your mother was very ill. In fact you returned home just hours before she died of influenza. However, all of your paperwork was signed off. You are an official veteran of the Great War, and we want you to march in the Poplar Cove parade with Eli Shaw. Now, whatever problems there are between the two of you, you can ignore for a day.”

“I . . . I'm a Veteran? I'm not in trouble?” DJ asked, then drained the lemonade from his glass. He sat back in the rocker, mumbling to himself.

“Yes, you're a Veteran, and no, you're not in trouble. Also, the army knows that you lied about your age to enlist. Eli lied about his age too. He was too old to go to the front, so you both have secrets that don't amount to anything at all. No one is going to hold anything against you, either,” Lana Sue said.

“I'm . . . I'm okay?” DJ's eyes filled with tears. He blew his nose on his handkerchief.

Lana Sue walked outside to the porch to give him a chance to compose himself.

“Gosh, Mr. Phillips thought he was a deserter. That's why he never attended any of the Armistice Day events,” Jessica said, as the girls walked out the back door and around the house to join Lana Sue on the porch.

A few minutes later DJ met them outside.

“Eli was the only one who knew my real age and where I really was in 1917 and 1918. We had a real blowup. I was afraid that he'd use it against me some time. That's why I live here. I don't know why I felt that way, he only been kind to me. It's just . . . it's just . . . well, no one in Marshall Cove bothers me. I heard him speak about you, Miss Barton. He showed me a picture of you and him in the hospital. I'd recognize you anywhere. He always talked about how well you treated the 369th boys. Eli kept saying that he'd invite you to the picnic and dance. I knew if you ever came West that you'd find out about me. Here all this time you knew.” DJ sighed heavily, as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest.

“I'd be honored to march in the parade. That is if the folks of Poplar Cove will have me.”

“Of course we want you to march,” Robyn said.

“I don't know how far I can go with this bum leg. It never really healed properly.”

“There are doctors in a hospital in San Francisco that can repair your leg,” Lana Sue said. “The army can help. Meanwhile, let's sit down and discuss your involvement with the Armistice Day celebrations.”

Armistice Day was clear, cool, and bright, with none of the fog from two days earlier. People from the TriCove area began lining up for the parade at nine in the morning. The bell in St. Charles A.M.E. church rang out, and Eli Shaw and David Joseph Phillips, dressed in their army uniforms, rounded the corner of Calhoun and Main Streets together. Eli carried the American flag, and David Joseph carried the California flag. Everyone gasped, because most of the TriCove residents knew about the bitter feud between the two. Only the passing of the flags stopped the conversations, as everyone asked those standing by them, “what happened to end the feud?” Ten Veterans of the Great War followed the flags, then three Union Veterans hobbled past, dressed in their dark blue wool uniforms, followed by two horse-drawn floats. The parade was over in five minutes, and everyone crossed over to Main Square for a picnic.

“I must say, I was surprised to see the two of you walking together,” Sheriff Brown said, as he handed Eli and David Joseph each a glass of iced tea.

“I came back last night after a long talk with Mrs. Barton and the girls. I was so scared about what I thought people might say that I lashed out at the only person who knew my secret,” David Joseph said, glancing over at Eli.

“Yes, I couldn't believe my eyes when I heard the dogs barking and there was DJ in my front yard. After tellin' the 369th story to the mayor's daughter, I'd made up my mind to go see David Joseph and patch things up. The quarrel was stupid,” Eli said.

“Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? As all of you know, we're here to celebrate the end of the War, November 11, 1918. Later today we'll go to Morton's End and place flowers on the graves of our fallen heroes. But right now, let me introduce an unsung hero who has been living among us for years. David Joseph (DJ) Phillips, please step to the stage,” Mayor Walker said, standing behind a podium he'd borrowed from the Grant's Cove library. “You too, Eli,” Mrs. Barton was seated on the stage to his right.

David Joseph walked slowly to the temporary stage set up in the middle of Main Square. He was followed by Eli Shaw.

“Mrs. Barton, would you and Eli do the honors?” Mayor Walker continued.

“Mr. Shaw. I think you should have the pleasure,” Lana Sue said.

Eli nodded and picked up a wrapped box that was lying on the table behind the podium. He slowly unwrapped the box and took out a small wound chevron.

“David Joseph, it is with a great deal of pleasure that I present you with this wound chevron for your bravery in 1918,” he said, pinning the Purple Wound Chevron on DJ's uniform.

“Don't forget these,” Lana Sue said, handing Eli DJ's discharge papers.

The rest of the Armistice Day was filled with dancing, food, and friendship, as family after family stopped by the Shaw-Phillips picnic area to wish both of them well and to see DJ's wound chevron. Three and his grandfather laughed and hugged each other and took turns taking some of the out-of-town folks for hayrides around the square.

“Mrs. Barton is really good at keeping secrets. She never told
us
about the real reason she wanted to see Mr. Phillips. Nor did she say anything about the wound chevron,” Jessica said, after the clapping and cheering from the crowd died down.

“Some detectives
we
are. We couldn't find out what the fight between Mr. Shaw and Mr. Phillips was about, and we didn't even
guess
that Mrs. Barton wouldn't have traveled all the way to California just to give someone papers that she could have mailed,” Amber said.

“We're going to have to turn in our junior deputy badges if we don't do better,” Robyn added.

“Our next adventure had better be very exciting. Soon it'll be Thanksgiving, and absolutely nothing happens in Poplar Cove at Thanksgiving,” Amber said.

“Remember what happened last year when we said nothing ever happens in Poplar Cove? I bet our next excitement will be lots of fun,” Robyn said.

Little did the Triplets know what would be in store for them six months later, when a circus wagon would break down outside of town.

Quarter to four
A
.
M
., the morning after Super Bowl Sunday. Feathery snowflakes were falling in silence: a hushed, false reprieve from the sleet bombardment earlier that night. Thousands of liquored-up revelers had spilled out of Buckhead bars and clubs for the dark trek home to the Atlanta suburbs, after watching the Patriots embarrass the Rams. DeKalb County Chief of Police Wofford “Dub” Miller Jr. was grimly surveying the result, as the coroner's “meat wagon” pulled onto the slushy soft shoulder of Hairston Road. “Stupid sumbitches,” the chief whispered to himself. “This never woulda happened if—”

A howl bit through the frosty black air, severing Miller's thoughts.

“Damn, Chief,” an officer gasped. “That a wolf?”

Dub Miller drew up the collar of his Gore-Tex anorak. “Ain't no wolves here, shit-fer-brains,” the chief grumbled. He gulped from his brushed aluminum travel mug, and the hot coffee mixed with George Dickel burned going down. “Just some pitiable stray, is all. Cold, hungry . . . smells the dead.” The chief and his officers had been putting down a lot of strays this winter. Especially as Atlanta's sprawl chomped its way toward Stone Mountain, bringing blight along with malls and Jaguars and
3,000-square-foot lakefront manses. But this howl was not one Dub Miller had ever heard before. Not the whine of a freezing, frightened mongrel. This was a canine song: voluptuous tonics and dominants, bridges and themes.

Police officers and EMTs—DeKalb, Georgia State Troopers, Pine Lake and Stone Mountain Municipal—stood transfixed by the sound, until the chief's handset beeped shrilly: a crisp human tenor followed, over the static and feedback.

“Chief Miller,”
the voice called,
“Send my GBI evidence control team down to the creekside, you copy? And if the DEA regional administrator calls, you patch her through, straightaway. I'm heading up.”

The chief answered, gruffly, “Ten-four.”

Dub Miller had met Georgia Bureau of Investigation Inspector Calvin Beauchamp only an hour ago. Already, Miller hated him. Not solely because Miller's older brother and uncle were retired “Kleagles” in the DeKalb-Fulton-Gwinnett Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. No, the chief figured Beauchamp for a transplanted Northerner, like many of the “fancy spooks” who'd invaded his county with the help of greedy developers. The arrogant black doctors, lawyers, computer-info-tech-whatevers—oh, they were bad enough. But it was the scumbag rappers, their so-called producers and parasites, plus millionaire Falcons, Braves, and Hawks, who really put a long, scraggly dog hair across Dub Miller's ass.
Highbrow niggers out here don't have the good goddamn sense to keep these hip-hop piss-ants out,
Miller cursed inwardly as he watched Inspector Beauchamp trudge up a snowy embankment marked with yellow tape and lighted by sputtering orange flares.

Beauchamp was at least four inches taller than the slight, birdlike Miller. A little gray painted the black hair of his temples and moustache. He was wearing tortoise shell glasses that matched his skin color; the lenses were wet from falling snow. GBI Special Agent Rick Cooper flanked him. Cooper was carrying a shallow cardboard box, like the bottom of a beer case.

Miller aimed a Maglite beam into the box and inspected the contents: several glassine baggies of a white powder. A six-ounce Ziploc of little
empty vials. Several teabag-sized foil packets. Some joints, and a few squat cigars sliced lengthwise and stuffed with ground, leafy matter. Miller sucked his teeth. “Didn't find any cash?”

Beauchamp raised an eyebrow. “No, Chief, we didn't. This contraband was secreted inside a nylon satchel. Strangely, it wasn't in the water, or the vehicle. It was hanging from a branch on a felled pine . . . big one bridging the creek ravine.”

“That so?” Miller had put on his best nonplussed look. “Whachewawl's theory? I mean, we called GBI onacounta the Smitty .38, the outta state tags . . .”

Beauchamp answered, stonefaced. “We'll know more once we trace the Smith & Wesson and the SUV's winched out of the water. As for the stash, it looks like what the DEA calls a ‘Hollywood Pu Pu Platter.' A Pu Pu's a mixed tray of appetizers at a Chinese restaurant. Hence the drug nomenclature. First menu item is ‘El Diablito.' That's heroin, a deck or so—that's fifteen grams—mixed with cocaine and then rolled into joints with Mexican cannabis.”

Agent Cooper spoke next. Miller was comforted by the young man's thick drawl. “Two types of coke here: powdered for the Diablitoes and the cheap cigars, and crack for basing with the heroin. The crack mixture's called ‘P-funk,' or a ‘Belushi Speedball,' while the cigar is called a ‘Gangsta Torpedo.' ”

Beauchamp added, “Interesting you mentioned cash, Chief, because one needs cash and connections to afford this kind of party. To buy, to transport.
Unhindered.
”

Miller laughed. “Somebody got 'emselves perished. I'd call that ‘hindered!' ”

Beauchamp ordered Cooper to take the box to a GBI Chevy Suburban, then ushered Miller toward three occupied black body bags lying on the icy pavement.

Miller asked, “Y'awl didn't see any dog tracks down by the creek didya?”

“Not unless they're in the ice under the snow layer. Why?”

“Nevermind. Um . . . you think they Yankee dealers? I mean, we got hip-hop folk, athletes out here, but they behave.”

Ignoring Miller, Beauchamp knelt, unzipped the bag, and took the frozen hand of a young black woman, saying, “This girl had the fake driver's license, right?”

Miller nodded. “Yep. But her old high school ID say she from College Park. Real bad area, near Hartsfield Airport.”

“This pink hospital wristband she's wearing is what the Panther-Six Mens' Club gives its girls for ID. She was a stripper, Chief.”

“Ha! How you know about that place?”

Beauchamp moved to the next body. “White male, age twenty-six. These throat lacerations . . . blood loss, plus the cold, must've produced shock within seconds.”

“Tore his neck up on the SUV's broken glass, likely,” the chief surmised. “Others don't have no fatal crash trauma. Maybe they was thrown clear; only the females hit the water, drowned.”

Beauchamp flipped the contorted, frozen body over to expose the buttocks and thighs. “Where was he found . . . in what position?”

“Across't that log you talked about. Facedown.” Miller took another swig from his travel mug. “So?”

“Lividity's wrong for facedown. Purple marks on his rump, back. You certain no one came up on this site before the State Troopers, maybe moved him?”

“Hell no.”

Beauchamp slid to the third body. The young black woman's eyes were still open. Glassy. Her gentle twisty-braids glistened with frost. “She's pretty,” Beauchamp whispered. “Looks just like my niece.
God.
”

Miller suppressed a snicker. So
Sherlock Spade ain't so tough.

Beauchamp stood up, icily composed. “So where's her brother, Sekou Toure Belleweather, age twenty-seven, according to the wallet you recovered?”

“Aside from the last names, how you know they siblings, not married?”

“No rings. Plus an expired Fordham University ID in the wallet had the same address as female subject number two.”

Two gunshots pierced the night. A terrified female voice crackled over the police frequency:
“Ten-thirteen! Officer needs assistance!”

A Stone Mountain patrolman yelled, “That's Lizzie! She was on the ridge taking accident scene photos!”

Glocks and Berettas drawn, cops charged up a snow-swept rocky hill, Miller and Beauchamp close behind. Flashlight beams crisscrossed on the officer, weapon aimed, but shaking violently. At her feet was a young black man's body, frozen in a seated position, facing a snow-blanketed mound.

“Dog tracks!” shouted a DeKalb officer. “Down there to the hollow!”

“Leave it be!” Dub Miller yelled, winded from the climb, pulse thumping.

The female officer lowered her weapon, panting, “Big . . . big pit bull.”

Beauchamp turned his penlight on the frozen man's face. The eyes were splayed in horror, but there wasn't a mark on him, save for a few rips in what was a very expensive Marc Jacobs leather peacoat. Beauchamp clamped the penlight between his teeth and scooped away the snow around the body. The chief swallowed hard when, under Beauchamp's light, he saw drag marks in the crusty layer of sleet beneath the fresh snow.

“Somethin' . . . dragged this boy up against these here oak roots? Jesus Lord.”

Beauchamp brushed off the mound. It wasn't a gnarled root. It was a dead dog. Miller backed away and bounded back to the road. And the howling began anew.

The big silver Lincoln Navigator skidded hard to the right. Adam Horowitz jerked the wheel into the skid, compensating. “Route 10 . . . connects to I-285, right?” he gasped. “Redan Road . . . that's too far south, right Sekou?
Sekou?
”

“I ain't feelin' this whining, cuz! You sound like those nouveau-riche down here who can't drive in a little snow! Can't
wait
to get back to New York!”

A young woman with twisty-braided locks and high cheekbones leaned up from the backseat. “This isn't a little ‘snow,' ” Sekou. It's a Georgia ice storm. These SUVs brake like cars, don't be fooled. Maybe
you'd be more concerned if you weren't half-geeked on champagne and those Diablito blunts.”

“Soje, hang back out my grill. You and white boy Adam here'll be hugged up and warm in the hotel by dawn.”

Sojourner Sanaa Belleweather strained over to buss Adam's pale cheek, then tweaked Sekou's goatee, which she called his “soul patch.” “Big brother, let's just stop at a Waffle House and wait the storm out.
Please.
”

With a deep sigh, Sekou said, “This's our last trip. Now we got working capital for our design company, Umoja. No bank was gonna give us a line of credit, and Mom and Dad are tapped out, or talking that we got-live-right-suffer-and-sacrifice mess. Like their hypocrite asses got a right to comment? This is the second Bush Era . . . we gotta bum-rush the doors slammed in our face.” He squeezed his sister's slender hand; she settled back. Sekou wasn't done, though. “And Adam—he needs these gigs, too. Parents straight up kick him out for loving
you
and leaving med school.”

“I can speak for m'damnself, Sekou,” Adam said. “And Five-O be thick out here—you see that last accident we passed? Car flipped clean over. Say we go back, or pull over.”

“Yo man,
drive.
First, no worries with Five-O. Trust me. Second, hell with our so-called customer in Lake Estate. Welshing niggah's probably too high to answer his doorbell. If he weren't a basehead, he'd've been playing in the Super Bowl and not watching on his wide-screen. Nothing but a gangsta with gangsta homies. And his trick-ass wife with her record label crew and bourgie sorors, sitting there complaining about
our
product,
our
service. Nah, I ain't havin' it.”

Adam grumbled. “The wife paid us with a Def Sounds Productions corporate bank draft . . . and you accepted it? Makes us look like a bunch of
pishers,
Yo. As
farkatke
as you renting this Lincoln on your own credit card!” When a faint whimper came from the rear, Adam added, “And let's not forget this underage drunk twat they saddled us with. How many dicks did this bitch su—”

Sojourner snapped. “Watch your mouth, Adam—you were taught better! Lord . . . she's sick again . . . I don't want her throwing up back here. Adam pull over.”

Sekou barked, “Both y'all shuddup! Yeah, pull over—put the damn blinkers on!
I'll drive.
And Soje, hang'er head outtha' window if you have to!”

Two dogs emerged through from a curtain of pelting sleet. One animal was stout, boxy. It turned to nuzzle and exhort the slower animal, whose shaggy red fur was encrusted with ice, toward the glow of a streetlight. The road was the last obstacle. Then up another wooded hill, and finally, refuge in a culvert hidden by stands of pines and bare live oaks. He'd scouted it that morning: a hot pipeline nearby for warmth, plenty of muskrats and rabbits to hunt and eat.

The younger dog could hear worn joints pop as the older companion slid to cold ground, panting. He licked the froth from his old friend's grizzled snout. Yes, one crushing bite to the throat could end his friend's misery. A bite like he'd delivered so many times to other dogs, to the gleeful howls of those hairless two-leggers. They'd thrown the green paper when he'd emerge from the pit, bloodied yet victorious. They named him “Goblin,” and at night, he'd guard their den. He'd bark and snap whenever rival packs of two-leggers would invade. The fire and thunder would shoot from sticks in their naked paws. A rival two-legger would scream when the fire hit him, and Goblin'd finish him off, jaws locked around soft parts. But then came the morning when the fire skewered Goblin as he slept. While the two-leggers battled over the white powder, Goblin limped away. To den and hide. To die. Pup two-leggers found him. They heaved rocks at him. But they ran when they heard a snarl and cried when old yellow teeth bit their haunches. The pup two-leggers called Goblin's rescuer “Brokebottom,” because he often dragged one hind leg. Brokebottom sniffed Goblin, head bowed as a friend. With the next sunrise, he brought Goblin meat, nudged him to drink from the gutter. Goblin healed and soon was strong enough to follow Brokebottom far from the dens of the cruel two-leggers. That was a season ago. Now, Goblin smelled the tumors inside Brokebottom's body. Now, he just wanted his savior to rest at ease.