Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (16 page)

“Leon Pettis?”

I didn't recognize the name, but his address sure registered. I put his license back into its plastic sheath and tossed his wallet down next to him. Pettis began to stir and groan. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I walked over to the box and opened the lid. Inside, there were three thick telephone books and a lot of wadded up newspaper. I sighed and fought back an impulse to give Pettis another good kick to remember me by.

“Keep the money, then,” Pettis said when he'd regained his composure. He sat up, holding his side, staring hard at me.

“Shut up,” I said.

“I could press charges,” he blustered.

“You're missing the big picture here, Leon.”

He looked startled that I knew his name.

“For
you
the charge would be assault. I was just defending myself. Tack on the attempted extortion charge and . . . well, I don't think I have to say anymore, do I?”

Leon Pettis blanched and then began to talk a blue streak even without me asking any questions. Pettis had never laid eyes on Caldonia. The son of the old lady I'd spoken to earlier, he had gotten my card from her and had half-baked a pathetic scam for pocket money.

I moseyed back to Mavis's house, feeling truly put out. As I rounded her corner, I caught sight of my grandfather and her still sitting quietly on the porch, this time a pitcher of frosted lemonade on a café table between them. Mavis fanned her face with a wrinkled magazine insert from the morning's paper.

“No need to ask how it went, since you're not towing a dog along behind you,” my grandfather said as I pushed open the gate. I told them about Pettis and my roll on the wild side in between sips of lemonade.

“Caldonia will be missing her treat,” Conroy said, her face creased with worry. “Banana Surprise. I feed it to her every night. She's probably fretting her poor self to death.”

“What's that, Mavis?” Grandy asked. “Banana Surprise?”

I only half listened. I thought I heard the word bananas and something niggled a spark of remembrance in my head, but I quickly lost the recollection.

“It's bananas and anything else sweet I can come up with out of the refrigerator. That's the surprise,” she said. “Caldonia swears by it.”

I looked out over Mavis's front yard, at the well-tended flowers and the pretty grass. Then turned to watch Mavis as she sat in her chair, her cane propped against its arm.

“Who cuts your grass, Mrs. Conroy?”

“What's that?” she asked.

“Your grass. Who cuts it?”

“A couple of boys from the neighborhood come by every week. Or
used to. I have not been at all satisfied with the work they've been doing. I like my grass exactly three-quarter inches. But young people today . . . so little pride in their work.” The last remark was addressed to my grandfather, who nodded, apparently agreeing with her.

“What do you mean ‘or did'?” I asked.

“I fired them Saturday, I guess it was. I came flat out and told both of them I was not at all satisfied. One of them got downright uppity, too. That's when I fired them. And I refused to pay for the half job they did do.”

“What were their names?”

Conroy shook her head. “I don't know. They were tall and skinny with big shoes that clunked when they walked. They came around the beginning of the summer passing out flashy flyers.”

I pulled my car up in front of the Lockes' house, got out, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. The dirty lawnmower was gone, but, this time no one answered the bell. Undeterred, I knocked hard against the front door and waited a polite length of time before peeking, impolitely, through the front picture window. I didn't see anyone milling around beyond the gauzy drapes. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 4:30. I'd have to wait.

“I hate waiting,” I muttered. “Really, really hate it.”

I headed for the Lockes' backyard, which was hemmed in by a worn chain-link fence. The gate was closed, but not locked.

“That's an invitation if ever I saw one. People really ought to be more careful.”

I tipped into the yard, easing the gate closed behind me. The backyard was neat and tidy, the lawn recently mowed and edged. I didn't care what Mavis said, the kid did good work. Someone was growing vegetables in a thin plot of land that ran the length of the yard—green peppers, cauliflower, cabbage. I made a face at the cauliflower.

A huge shade tree with long, expansive branches, towered over a small aluminum tool shed that sat against the back fence. A greasy Weber grill and a tiny redwood picnic table sat on the Lockes' deck, perfect for
outdoor cookouts. I did not see Caldonia. I craned an ear, but did not hear any whimpering or scratching, either.

I walked over to the shed. It was padlocked. I doubted the dog would be in there. It was too hot a day and too small a space. But I rapped on it anyway, for thoroughness's sake. Nothing barked back at me. Good news for Caldonia, disappointing news for me. There was nothing to do but wait out front for the Lockes to come home. They surely could get more information from Junior than I could without having to throttle the little rug rat.

I waited it out in my car, head pressed against the headrest, windows rolled down to allow for breezes, scanning the quiet street from behind the anonymity of my sunglasses. Anita Baker sang on the radio. If I'd had a book, a tall iced tea and a fresh Cobb salad, it would have been an OK time.

“Caldonia. Cal-do-nia,” I muttered lazily. “Who names a dog Caldonia anyway?” I pictured the dog in my head as I remembered her—spindly legged, practically toothless, hairy in spots, bald in others, antisocial. And then I took stabs at naming her more appropriately as a means of passing the time. “Ugly . . . Homely . . . Surly Sue . . . Gummy Knobs.”

The name game ended when a tan LeBaron coasted into the spot in front of the Lockes' bungalow and a petite woman who looked to be in her late forties, hauling a briefcase, tote bag, and shopping sack scrambled out and headed for the front door. I gave her enough time to get in, lock the door behind her, put her bags down, and turn the lights on before I made my way to the doorbell. In this neighborhood, running up on someone from behind was an invitation to be maced, and I had already had all the excitement I needed for one day.

Mrs. Locke answered the door on the second ring, peering cautiously through the thin crack.

“Yes?” she asked, tentatively.

“Mrs. Locke, my name's Eve DeHaas. I was by earlier. I spoke with your son about a missing dog. He was a big help, and I'd like to ask him a couple more questions, if I could. Would you know where I could find him?”

“Bernard? No I'm afraid not. What did you say your name was?” I held up one of my cards.

“You're a private detective looking for a missing dog?” she asked quizzically.

Sad but true.
“Family situation,” I said. “Do you expect Bernard soon?”

The door opened wider. “He should be here any time. Would you like to come in and wait?”

“Thanks.”

“Please, have a seat in the living room. I'll be right with you.”

Mrs. Locke looked to be about 5'4", a good four inches shorter than I and pleasantly plump in a motherly kind of way. She smelled faintly of lavender and, in contrast to her son, bore no resemblance to man's best friend. Her warm, brown eyes were keen but kind, and everything about her was precise. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet there was symmetry. She offered me a seat on the sofa and something cool to drink. I politely declined the drink. She placed her bags on the dining room table. Several bunches of bananas stuck out of the top of the one from the grocery.

“Someone sure likes bananas,” I said, when Mrs. Locke joined me in the living room.

“My husband,” she said. “But I haven't been able to keep them in the house lately. He's eating them almost as fast as I can buy them.”

“Mrs. Locke, do you own a dog?”

She blinked. “A dog? No, we've never owned a dog. Why do you ask?”

“Someone mentioned hearing a dog barking from your yard.”

“Oh, that. Bernard
was
dog-sitting for someone recently, but the little thing barked too much. I told him he'd have to make other arrangements. Nothing worse than trying to sleep with a dog barking in the night.”

I showed Mrs. Locke Caldonia's picture. “Is this the dog?” I asked.

She took the picture in her hands and studied it. “That sure looks like it. She was a real unusual looking dog. This the one you're looking for?”

I nodded yes. “How long has Bernard been in the landscaping business?”

Mrs. Locke was still on Caldonia and answered distractedly. “Oh,
three years, I guess. He's doing real well with it, too. What would Bernard be doing with somebody's missing dog?”

I started to answer, but the sound of a key turning in the front lock stopped me. Mrs. Locke and I watched the door as it opened slowly. It was Bernard. He looked much the same as he had earlier in the day, except for the startled look on his face.

I got up from the couch slowly, watching him, hoping he wouldn't run, but knowing he probably would.

“Bernard, where'd you say you got that dog you've been . . . ?”

That's as far as Mrs. Locke got. Bernard bolted out the front door, slamming the screen door shut behind him. I sighed and took off after him.

“Why do they
always
run?”

I hit the front porch just in time to see Bernard bolt across the street. He took off down the block, cutting across lawns and weaving between parked cars. I was a good distance behind him, skirting bonsai bushes, and stumbling over those damned decorative wood chips homeowners have such an affection for, but I managed to keep him in sight. Mrs. Locke's voice shattered the early evening's silence. “BERNARD MORRIS LOCKE, COME BACK HERE!” Such a big voice for a small woman.

Bernard Morris Locke did not come back. He didn't even slow down. All I saw of him were the soles of his shoes, and the back of his T-shirt and baggy jeans as he swerved from parked car to front lawn in a mad dash to who knew where. Surely the heavy shoes he was wearing sooner or later would slow him down?

Yeah, right.

I could let him go. He was a kid after all. He'd have to come home eventually. As I ran through alleys after the sprinter from hell, I thought that that probably would be the wisest thing to do, the adult thing. But something in me wanted to run the little dog thief down and stuff his Nikes, laces and all, down his lying little throat. This impulse won out.

Bernard's blue shirt ducked into a narrow gangway that separated two multi-unit apartment buildings just ahead of us. I slowed some and then ran in after him. The gangway was deserted except for a half dozen smelly garbage carts lined up alongside the brick walls and a dirty tabby cat
cleaning itself on a first-floor windowsill. I didn't hear the clunky shoes thudding on the asphalt; I didn't see the blue shirt. But I did smell liver and onions cooking somewhere inside.

“Ah, hell!” I spat out, breathing heavily. I'd lost him. “But I couldn't have.” I scanned the passageway for stairways leading to basements, or fire escapes leading to accessible rooftops. Just as my eyes followed the line of a fire escape to my right, a flurry of blue pounced down toward me. It was Bernard trying to jump me. He missed, just clipping my left shoulder on his way to the concrete. When he hit, he lay there on the ground for a time, clutching his side, heaving in and out like a steam engine, a sweaty ball of exhausted protoplasm.

“Where's the dog, Bernard?” I asked.

He was breathing so heavily that nothing but wheezy air was coming out. This kid was in terrible shape. I made a mental note to mention it to his mother. I leaned against the side of the building and waited for Bernard's breathing to even out. It took longer than it should have. While I waited, I took a few well-deserved breaths of my own. I was thirty-three, after all. When Bernard was able to stand, I marched him back to his house, keeping a tight grip on his shirt collar, just in case he got his second wind.

I found Caldonia enjoying yet another bowl of Banana Surprise in the basement of one Terrell “Bird” Williams—the other half of B&B Landscaping. Bernard and Bird, apparently, snatched the dog, planning to hold her for ransom. Banana Surprise, a delicacy that Mrs. Conroy had talked about to all and sundry, was the only thing that would keep her quiet, so they ended up feeding it to her all day long, which was why Mrs. Locke was always out of bananas. Bernard and Bird were asking for $5,050—the fifty dollars was what Mavis owed them for services rendered—I'm still trying to figure out what the $5,000 was for.

Bird's mother found a crudely written ransom note in Bird's underwear drawer; he'd misspelled the word
kidnapped.
The note had been waiting for one of the boys to work up enough courage to deliver it to Conroy. Scrawled at the bottom of the note was a postscript warning Conroy not to use exploding money. I blame television.

I returned Caldonia, washed my hands of her and Conroy, and left the fate of the kidnappers in the hands of their respective mothers. The last I'd heard, both were performing lawn maintenance for Mavis free of charge, and they were required not only to bring a lawnmower and clippers, but also a ruler.