Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (9 page)

“Think we got something here.” MoMo was looking me dead-on, like he was reading me, doing a brain scan. As he stared me down, slowly reaching across his broad chest for the gun in the shoulder holster, all his muscles seemed to flex through the tan colored polo shirt. Everything was tensed. He was poised to pounce.

I was frozen in place. Not as scared as I was anxious. Trying to figure the angles, plot a way out. He had killed Ant because he knew Ant knew too much, killed little Sloopy just to cover it all up. He had to know that Ant wasn't in this by himself. My name was on the caller ID. Now all he needed was the confirmation. That, and an excuse. There was nothing he wouldn't do. I held a dead-on stare at his eyes, knowing that I'd see something
just before he made a move. Hoping I would, anyway. Figuring I would figure something out.

Somehow, I caught the
Trib
reporter in the corner of my eye. He had made his way to the foot of my stoop, looked like he wanted to come closer.

“Dash?” He checked the situation, stopped. “It's me, Geoff.”

“Be cool,” I said.

“That's right,” MoMo said. “Mad cool.”

I was careful not to even flinch and give MoMo an excuse to turn me into some fucking accident. So, I just stood there, perfectly still, eyes locked onto his eyes.

Apparently, Mrs. Sampson was looking at something else. “What's that on your shirt, son?”

That's when I saw it, too. The confirmation. “It's blood, Mrs. Sampson.”

“Shut the fuck up,” MoMo said, as he whipped the gun up in position, pointing it dead in my face.

“I'm David Hunter,” I said, mostly to the other cop, my only hope, now. I turned back to MoMo, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but no feelings. He knew who I was now—from the hooker series—and knew what I knew. I kept talking to the other cop. “That's probably my name you're looking at there. I'm from the
Trib.
”

“I can verify that,” Geoff said from the foot of the stoop, next to the other cop.

“Did I ask you, muthafucka?” MoMo snapped his head in Geoff's direction, slowly turning back to me.

I kept talking to the other cop and noticed the ones across the street were starting to check us out, move in our direction. “That kid was helping me with my investigation. Of this man,” I said with a nod toward MoMo.

“Mo,” the other cop said. “What's up with this?”

I kept on. “This detective has been moving in on the Viceroys. Now he's trying to protect his turf. I think if you get this shirt tested, you'll find out that splattered blood matches Antwon there. Maybe Sloopy in the next block.”

With that, MoMo extended his arm, bringing the gun just inches in front of my nose. “On your knees, bitch.”

The cop with the cell phone moved closer to MoMo. Couldn't tell at the time whether he was going to pull him back or back him up. Apparently, MoMo couldn't tell either. He turned quickly, almost like he was threatening the other cop with his gun. That's when the police walking across the street caught the whole thing. Couldn't believe it. MoMo freaked. He hopped over the railing of my stoop, landed in the gangway ready to make it to the next block. That's when Carver did something I never would have expected. He swung one of his crutches around and let it go in MoMo's direction, snagging him between the legs, tripping him up. Just long enough.

Without even pausing to think about whether any of this made sense, but just long enough to think about how it might make sense to Peaches and Ant, I flipped over the railing and down feet first onto MoMo's back. I heard a crunching sound and a grunt as he flattened out on the pavement. But I didn't stay there for long. Somebody tackled me from behind. Another cop, who caught me in a choke hold. And that was the last thing I remembered before my whole world started a slow fade to black.

I gazed through that window in Jennings's office. Head bandaged, doing the post mortem on my story and everything Ant and I had uncovered. A huge scandal meant a huge story, and I was the last one standing, the only one who would be there to hear the applause. The tributes. The award ceremonies. A journalist's dream. And all I could think about was my recurring nightmare. There was MoMo. Finally in custody, facing a fate worse than death: caged up with so many other animals he had trapped. MoMo. Maurice Moore. Running his own game, his own gang from inside the police force. Prostitution. Drugs. Dirty cop. Double dealing. But, hey, was I any better? After all, hadn't I violated some public trust, getting involved in the story I was covering? Lying to get at the truth.

I thought about Ant and the hope I had created in him and how it all came crashing down around him. His own dreams like shrapnel, cutting deep into his soul. Thought about the plans he had made for his life and
the irony of how he had fulfilled a part of that plan after all, and how, in the end, I had helped him carry it out, serving as a pallbearer at his funeral, gripping that box he had picked out.

Funny thing about a murder scene. Stick around long enough, and a big part of you dies, too.

Detective Marti MacAlister wasn't sure what had awakened her. Perhaps it was the cessation of the train's gentle rocking. The last thing she remembered was leaving Colorado. Now there was nothing but desert outside. Rock formations were outlined against the night sky. She was traveling coach with her son, Theo, and her stepson Mike, both eleven. The only lights were along the floor. Nobody moved about. She listened for a few minutes, but heard no distinctive sound other than a soft, nasal snore. After a few minutes of no movement and near silence, she decided that a trip to the rest room was in order.

A tall, African-American conductor stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking her path. “Sorry ma'am. This section of the train is off-limits until the ambulance arrives.”

She hesitated long enough to look into the small compartment reserved for the handicapped. The doors were closed. The lights were out. She could see the four seats on one side of the aisle. They were empty. There were only six seats in all. Three elderly couples had boarded in Kansas. One of the women had talked loudly and nonstop while they were upstairs. They had been moved down here earlier in the evening.

“Where are they?” she asked. “Those three couples?”

“We moved them again, ma'am.”

“Where are we?”

“About midway between Raton and Albuquerque.”

Marti debated showing the man her badge, but decided against it. Whatever the problem, it didn't seem urgent. She went upstairs, retrieved a backpack the boys had filled with pop, snacks, books, and Lord knew what else, and walked back three cars to the lounge. It had been crowded early when the movie was showing, but there were only two people there now.

“I can tell you right now she's dead,” the young man said. He looked to be in his early twenties and had his hair pulled back in a ponytail fastened at the nape of his neck. “Otherwise her mouth would still be going.”

“The train is quiet now, ain't it?” a woman agreed. They weren't sitting together, and the woman had to be at least ten years older than the young man. Marti recognized them because they had been assigned to the same coach. “They took 'em all downstairs, thank God,” the woman said. “Now the whole downstairs is off limits, and they're not there. Musta taken them off the train.”

“And took them where? In what?”

“One of them probably offed Big Mouth and the rest of 'em are being held somewhere for questioning.”

“I sure hope Big Mouth is the one who's dead,” the young man said. “The way she was going on about peanut butter, I thought I was going to puke.”

Marti thought that given the age of the three couples, it was more likely that if one of them had died, it happened without outside assistance, and the others were being given some privacy. She rummaged through the backpack until she found a bottle of water, took out her journal, hesitated, then took out the boys' journals, too. She usually respected their privacy, but all they were writing about was a train ride. The trip was half over, and she hadn't even opened her journal yet, and they had agreed to share what they wrote when they reached Los Angeles. She took out a pencil. Except for crossing the Mississippi, she couldn't remember much, other than the three elderly couples. Reading the boys' journals might help her think of something to write.

“The Peanut Butter People,” Mike had written. “What a fun time we are having listening to these old people talk about peanut butter. Did you know it got stuck in your dentures and made them come loose and flop around in your mouth? Did you know it has SALT!!!!! That is bad, bad, bad, if you are old, old, old. And it does not have enough dietary fiber, which is good if you are old. More about this when we get back home and Momma Lydia makes us some peanut butter cookies and helps us eat them.”

Marti had tuned out most of what the couples had discussed and tried not to focus on the woman's voice, which was high-pitched with a Midwest accent. She opened her journal and made a few notes, outlining what she remembered about the flat Kansas landscape.

“You gonna tell us what's going on?” the young man with the ponytail asked when a female attendant walked through the car.

“Nothing to tell,” the woman said. “Someone's sick. Town's a ways from here. Soon as they get 'em into an ambulance, we'll leave.”

“ 'Em, Him.” the woman said as soon as the attendant was out of earshot. “I told you it wasn't big mouth.” Marti noticed a slight slurring as she spoke.

“She said 'em,” Ponytail said, “Like in them, not him. It could of been her. Bet it was.”

“Nah. People like her don't die. They just get more annoying. I bet it was the nice little old lady who hardly talked at all.”

Marti took out Theo's journal.

“Mrs. Lindstrum doesn't listen to anyone. All she does is talk. Everything she says is more important than anything anyone else is saying, especially Mrs. Borzak. When Mrs. Borzak was trying to explain ways to eat peanut butter because it was good for you, Mrs. Lindstrum just kept interrupting her. Mrs. Borzak bakes peanut butter cookies a lot and gives them to her husband. He says they taste awful, but he eats them anyway. She doesn't like him very much.”

It had been dusk when the three couples boarded the train in Dodge City. Mrs. Lindstrum spoke in a voice two octaves above soprano. She led the way to the front of the car and told everyone else where to sit. That done, she directed the conversation, cutting off anyone who dared change
the subject. At first Mike and Theo had been amused, but they soon became annoyed. Marti had suggested that they write about it in their journals, but had to bribe them first with a trip to the club car for pizza.

Theo had written, “Old people need to have more to do than eat and talk. They are getting on my nerves. Their jabbering is uncontrollable. They sit around and have stupid conversations. I don't care what kind of cereal they like, or why bran is good for you, or why they eat fake eggs. Now Mrs. Lindstrum is ordering everyone to put on their sweaters because SHE is cold. AND THEY ARE ALL DOING IT!!!!!!!”

Marti tried to remember what Mr. Lindstrum looked like and could not. She couldn't remember hearing any of the men speaking either. She got the impression that the couples had known each other for years and wondered if they had always interacted this way or if things had changed over time. She read Mike's journal.

“Hup, two, three, four.

got one sweater get five more.

Put them on and do it quick,

I am cold and you must pick

a place where you can sit and mind.

I'm in charge and you're behind.

The worst thing when you get old,

is doing just what you are told.”

“We're just sitting here,” Ponytail complained.

“Yeah, and the club car isn't even open,” the woman said. “The least they could do is open the club car. Too bad the old biddy isn't here to boss the attendant around.”

“I bet we are miles and miles from a city or even a town. There is nothing out there but sand, snakes, and rocks. Man, we might be here for hours.”

“I knew when they got on that they were trouble. Miss Mega Mouth leading the way, Miss Prissy in the middle, and Miss Mouse bringing up the rear.”

Marti thought that was an interesting description, more so because she
couldn't relate it to any of the women other than Lindstrum. She made three entries in her journal. Miss Mega Mouth, Miss Prissy, and Miss Mouse. She decided to try to match up the names and the husbands with the nicknames. Miss Mega Mouth had to be Mrs. Lindstrum. She drew a blank with the other two.

She wondered if this woman, or if anyone, had noticed the men. When she and the boys went to dinner, they had been across from and seated just behind the three couples. That was the only time she had gotten a good look at them. Mrs. Lindstrum was so skinny the bones in her wrists looked like knobs. Her hands had a bluish tinge, and the veins stood out. Her hair was so thin her scalp showed. She looked sick. Maybe that was why she was so bossy and waspish.

Then there was the woman in the blue velveteen jogging suit with the rhinestone trim on the collar. Was she Miss Prissy? According to the boys, the third woman was Mrs. Borzak. Marti wasn't sure she would describe Mrs. Borzak as Mousy. She butted in every time Mrs. Lindstrum took a breath and probably could have talked as much, given the opportunity. When she wasn't butting in, she was clearing her throat. Her cough was distinctly phony. Marti did recall the man bringing up the rear. He shuffled along, dragging his feet. His shoulders were hunched, his hands crippled.

She opened Mike's journal again and found the entry for dinner.

“Fiber folks! Get your Fiber here! Fiber! Eat that broccoli! Whole grain toast for breakfast! Bran cereal for lunch! And—ta-da—fruit, fruit, fruit and eat the skin!!! Oranges too? Bananas? Yuck!! Oh, and if that doesn't work, get some Metamucil!”

Marti had to smile. If she hadn't found the woman's voice so annoying, she would have been amused by them, too.

Theo had written: “Fiber means a lot to old people. Mrs. Lindstrum says ‘using it' is very important. I think she means going to the bathroom, but I'm glad she didn't say that while we were eating. Mrs. Lindstrum must be very worried about her health. She took a bunch of herbs and vitamins, and she has this special salt shaker that she uses on her food. Mrs. Borzak grows whatever is in it in her garden. That must be why Mr. Borzak put it on his food, too. The other man didn't want any. He said it tasted like grass. Mrs. Borzak made him have some anyway. It must be
something healthy, because everyone who had some looks sick. They are all going to Kingman, Arizona, because Mr. and Mrs. Lindstrum have a condo there. They have one in Florida, too. The Lindstrums and the Borzaks have been friends for a long time, and they go there every year. This is the first time the other couple is going. I hope it is not too far to Kingman.”

“Damn!” Ponytail jumped up. “I'm going to go see what I can find out,” he said. “This is worse than being in jail.”

The woman sat there for a few minutes, said, “God, I need a cigarette,” and went down to the club car.

Marti flipped through the boys' journals, looking for something the men had said, or some description of what they looked like. There wasn't anything. She tried to remember who had been sitting beside each woman at dinner. The man with the arthritic hands had been sitting with the lady in the blue jogging outfit, who, although she wasn't young, looked a lot younger than he did, and seemed to be in much better health. Then there was the gentleman with the steel gray hair and deep blue eyes and a faint expression of amusement on his face. He didn't pay much attention to Mrs. Lindstrum and gave the impression that he was either tolerating or humoring her. He was sitting with Mrs. Borzak, so Marti penciled him in as Mr. Borzak with a question mark beside his name. She still couldn't remember what the third man looked like.

The woman came back upstairs and sat down with a loud sigh. “Damn. We'll be here all night, and they won't even open the damned club car.”

A few minutes later, Ponytail burst in. “Told you!” he said. “It was one of the women.”

“You said it was Big Mouth.”

“And I still say it. At least we know for sure it wasn't one of the men. And, we know that she's dead.”

“How come you're so sure about that?”

“Did you hear anyone suggesting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, or CPR? No. They just got everyone out of that compartment. And they had to open the door and take them outside to get them to another car. Why would they do all of that if someone wasn't dead?”

“Maybe you're right. I usually take the bus, so I don't know what they'd do.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Actually, I didn't think Big Mouth was so bad. It's just that she wouldn't shut up.”

“That and she didn't have shit to say.”

“That too, but she kind of took charge, know what I mean? Like Miss Mousy was trying to aggravate the hell out of her, and Miss Prissy was sitting there like she was better than everyone else, but Miss Mouth, she was in charge. I like a woman who's in charge.”

They both went downstairs.

Marti looked outside. The sky was clear and dark. There was no pollution. There were no jet stream trails. The stars were not hidden behind clouds. She wondered if someone was dead, if Ponytail knew what he was talking about, or exaggerating something he had overheard. When the female attendant came in and sat down, Marti leaned forward and said, “Long night tonight.”

“We'll make up some of the time,” the attendant said. “Once we get going, there won't be nothing for a while but rails and desert.”

“Too bad about that old lady.”

“Hah. Too bad for us. She's out of here. Cardiac arrest. Not that any of her friends feel too bad about her passing. Must be their age. By the time you get that old, you must be used to having your friends die.”

“How's her husband holding up?”