Southside (9781608090563) (20 page)

“Oh, yeah? What that be?”

“I just wish you could've been there and seen little Bobby's face when I shot him and drove my car over and over his punk ass.”

Evil boiled, his rage about to explode. Sims didn't let up. “Gonna be casket closed for Bobby. Face looked like a watermelon dropped from the Empire State Building.”

With peerless fury, Big Evil slammed his forehead into the wire-stuffed glass separating him from Sims. An unholy wail, like that of a Cape buffalo-gored lion, erupted from Evil's crazed mouth. The guards rushed to him, yelling for backup. With his one free hand he struck the glass three furious times before the guards tried to tackle him. One guard went for the shackled, but bucking legs. Not a smart move. The other went Barry Bonds on Evil's shoulders with his nightstick. Two more guards entered the room. One with a taser that had little effect. Five men were on the shackled Evil while he screamed, “That guy killed my brother! He killed my brother! Get him! Get him!”

The guards were too busy to pay attention to the words. They were struggling to get the upper hand. They didn't have it. Two more guards showed up, both with shotguns that were useless in the cramped quarters.

By the time they finally got control, Eddie Sims was halfway to Eureka. At first, he considered just dumping the Cutlass at the airport and getting a flight to Los Angeles, if they had those flights, or to Sacramento. He didn't want to chance driving seven hundred miles. They probably got some video in the lot, in the prison itself. It would be sad to leave the Cutlass. He knew he would never see it again.

But, then he gambled. Who is going to believe Big Evil? And after the fight he most likely put up—Sims had seen the opening salvos—he must certainly be in the hole by now with no communication with the outside or inside world.

So he drove home. However, just to play it cautious, he took the long way, heading down from Eureka, then heading east at Fortuna along meandering Highway 36, past sycamores and pines, past fields of wild fennel, to the two-horse towns of Platina and Red Bluff. There, he checked into a sixty-one dollar room at the Red Bluff Travelodge on Antelope Boulevard.

He put on the local news channel based in Sacramento and saw
nothing about himself or Big Evil or Pelican Bay. Checked the papers in the morning. Nothing. Why worry? No one would believe a killer like Evil.

He filled the gas tank and zipped down Highway 5. Just past bankrupt Stockton, he chicaned over to Highway 99, which went through the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, past Modesto, Merced, Fresno, Visalia, Corcoran, and Bakersfield before it met up again with Interstate 5.

Seeing Big Evil try to attack him, even through bulletproof glass, was terrifying. He loved it. If he died right now, it would be worth it for that moment. But he moved on to more pleasant thoughts—his next victim.

Detective Ralph Waxman was the primary investigating the wicked killing of Terminal, but it was Sal LaBarbera and Johnny Hart who went to the Desmond household to give the parents the grim news. Sal had known the family over twenty years, having first come in contact with them while investigating an assault when he was a patrolman. A black man had been badly beaten, pulverized into a temporary coma in the alley by the garage. Young Cleamon was questioned but not arrested.

Throughout the following nearly two decades, after the brothers, Cleamon and Bobby, had grown into Big Evil and Terminal, LaBarbera would visit the home on a nearly monthly basis, looking for one or the other of them, sometimes both. Mrs. Desmond would be pleasant sometimes, curt others. “I am sick and tired of you coming around here every time someone gets shot. Are Cleamon and Bobby the only suspects in this city? Get out of here. Tired of your damn knock, too.”

So, when they heard that powerful single knock on the door, the Desmonds knew who it was.

“Hello, Detective Sal. Johnny. So who did Bobby supposedly shoot now?”

“Can we come in?”

“Here we go again. I'm too tired to argue. I had a strange day.” She unlocked the security door. They walked in.

Hart couldn't resist. “What was so strange about it?”

“What do you want?”

“Is Cleveland home?” At that, Cleveland Desmond entered the front room.

“Sit down, ma'am, Mr. Desmond,” Sal said in a quiet tone.

“Oh, my God. No!” Mrs. Desmond said in a trembling, terrified murmur. She began moaning, slowly, like a forty-five hit single on thirty-three rpm. Her husband rushed to her side and put his arm around her. “Please, Jesus. Please. Don't let it be. Please, Jesus.”

Sal shook his head. “I'm sorry. Bobby is gone. They found him in an alley in Watts this morning. I'm really sorry to tell you this.”

Betty slumped, her husband guided her down on the couch. He sat next to her, gently running his hand over her hair. There were just a few tears slowly leaking from her heartbroken eyes. It was the news they had been avoiding, but at the same time expecting, for more than fifteen years. Now the news landed home with death's abrupt splat, like a big city Sunday newspaper landing on a rainy driveway. The couple sat there in silence. Finally, Mr. Desmond said, “Let's pray, dear.” He handed her a framed photograph of their slain son and she held it to her chest.

Sal and Johnny got up. “We'll be outside. Please come get us when you are done. We need to talk. Our thoughts are with you.”

Johnny chimed in, “Sorry for your loss.”

They stepped off the porch and walked toward the chain-link fence near the sidewalk. Johnny said, “You know, Sal, in a way I really am sorry for their loss. Not that I'm sorry about Term getting killed. He can rot in hell for all I care. Things would be better 'round here if he got killed fifteen years ago. But, how can such a nice couple as those people inside raise two kids who killed over, what, thirty-five, forty people?”

On cue, maybe two, three blocks away, five-rapid fire gunshots were heard.

“That's how,” said Sal. Neither bothered to call in or investigate the shots. Mere gunshots around here didn't merit investigation. Someone needed to get hit. “I mean, if Cleamon had been raised
in a nice neighborhood, with these parents, he could've grown up to have been a CEO or something. He was, he is a leader. He's probably running the black rows up at the Bay right now. Bobby, I don't know about him. He was more the joker.”

“Yeah, he was a funny guy. ‘Cept when he killed someone.”

Five minutes later, they were back inside. Mr. Desmond was cracking the seal on a bottle of Rémy Martin XO.

“Bobby brought me this Rémy three, four years ago. I never opened it. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Desmond.”

“Honey, have a sip with me. For Bobby.” He poured a smidgen in a glass for his wife. He poured himself three fingers into a snifter. They tapped and looked heavenward.

“I know it's rough, but the sooner we get on this, the better,” Sal said. “I tried to get ahold of you earlier, but I didn't have a work address or cell. We want to catch the person who killed your son.”

She gasped at that. Cleveland kissed her cheek. “Honey, Bobby's in a better place now.”

Sal and Johnny looked at each other. “Anyway,” said Sal, “when did you last see Bobby?”

“Last night around seven, I think. It was dark.”

“Earlier, you said its been a ‘strange' day,” said Hart. “What did you mean?”

“Well, I meant, well, the day wasn't so strange. Just a normal day at work, but last night was weird. Now I wonder if it had something to do with what happened to Bobby. I can't believe he is gone. Does his girlfriend know? His boys? Does Tamara know?”

“You are the first family we've told,” said Sal. “We kept it from the media.”

Johnny and Sal both thought
not that the media would give a damn about a killing down here now that Lyons was not at the
Times. Sal continued. “I tried to get ahold of Cleamon up north, but he was unavailable. There is apparently a guard there who is on friendly
terms with him and he was going to tell him. So he knows. Please go on about last night.”

She told them about the visit from the man who came to the door and had a gun and claimed he wanted to thank Cleamon for saving him from the Crips in jail.

Johnny took notes.

“When did he say that happened? Cleamon hasn't been in county for a long time as far as I know,” Sal said.

“I forgot what he said. But it was a long time ago. In the late nineties maybe.”

“And he was just now getting around to thanking you?”

“Said he had been out of town, Las Vegas, I think. Yes, it was Las Vegas. And he read or heard about Mike Lyons getting shot and it mentioned that Lyons jerk had wrote a big story about Cleamon, that phony story full of lies. So I guess it made this guy think he never did thank Cleamon or his family. He was really nervous. Bobby had his gun and was using curse words a lot. I told him to calm down.”

“Mrs. Desmond, could you describe him with as much detail as possible? His height, weight, tattoos, earrings, any marks, scars. Anything.”

“That's the thing. There was really nothing distinctive about him. He was average height and weight. I didn't see or notice any tattoos or scars or earrings. Medium complexion.”

LaBarbera glanced over at Hart who was busy taking notes.

“What was this guy's name? Did he introduce himself?”

“Oh, Jesus, what was his name? He said it, too, because we asked him, but then I went to get some water. He was so nervous. Bobby would know. Oh, God!”

Mr. Desmond held his wife again. “Honey, he's in a better place.”

“Mrs. Desmond, try and think of his name.”

She racked her mind. “It had something to do with a football player. I wasn't really paying that much attention because he had
got me thinking about Cleamon and I was just thinking back to when Cleamon was a little boy. So I was here, but I wasn't. I remember, though, it was something about a football player and Bobby saying something back like he had the wrong name. That make any sense? That help?”

“Well, not really. At least, not yet.”

The phone rang. “Good piece in the
Weekly
,” LaBarbera said. “Still got it.”

“Thanks. You catch any flack from the brass?” I asked. Sal had been quoted as saying the mayor and chief's list was “odd.”

“Not a word. Anyway, Johnny and I just finished and we're gonna go out for some pizza. Can you get us into your girl's hot restaurant? You wanna meet us?”

“Sure.” I hadn't seen Francesca for nearly a week. This would be an excuse. “What time?”

Though always booked, the Pizzeria as well as the Osteria next door, would keep one table in reserve for Francesca. I called and asked for that table. They were happy to give it to me. They wondered where I'd been. I was waiting at the front desk, talking to Lance, the maître d', when the detectives arrived. We were quickly seated and offered menus.

“So how'd it go tonight?” I asked. “The notification. What was their reaction when you told them their son was dead?”

A bottle of red wine came.

“Before we even told her, she knew,” said LaBarbera.

“Mom's intuition,” Hart added.

“Compliments of the kitchen, Michael,” Pilar, the beautiful server, said. She placed down three appetizers. The detectives dug in. I sipped the wine.

“So when did the parents last see him?” I asked.

They laid out the story for me. The armed stranger who came to thank Cleamon and the family for saving him in county jail. Terminal
terrifying the nervous visitor. The name she couldn't remember. The football player thing.

“You mean the stranger's name was the same as a football player?” I asked.

“The guy said his name, and then said, ‘like the football player.' And then Term tells the guy something like you mean so and so and he corrected the name to match a football player.”

“You mean,” I said, “like he said his name was ‘Joe Wyoming, like the football player's' and Term corrected him? Something like that?”

“I guess.”

The pizzas came. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Pilar brought another bottle. We ate and drank. The pizza was superb.

“So,” Sal said between savoring bites, “Johnny and I were thinking the killing of Term and your shooting might be connected.”

“Fuck, Sal, I told you that already. You asked me if I was a shot caller.”

“Well, it clicked for us when Mrs. Desmond said there was ‘nothing really distinctive' about the guy who came to visit. Those are the exact words you used. And what's the connection?”

Hart's mouth was full of the meat lover's pizza yet he mumbled a response that was impossible to understand. But I knew what he meant. “Big Evil.”

“Exactly,” said LaBarbera. “Now it may just be a coincidence, but I don't believe in coincidences. Mike, I want you to come with us over to Mrs. Desmond's house, the sooner the better, so you two can go over what this guy looked like.”

“Just for the hell of it, let's say the shooter is the same guy. What does that tell us? He got something against Evil?”

“Yeah. Evil killed someone he loved, and he can't get to him at Pelican Bay, so he gets to Evil's little brother. That story you did made Evil a legend. He was a legend in the 'hood, but people all over the city never heard of him until you wrote that magazine story.
And that courtroom piece you wrote about his trial. That could piss someone off. How Evil was smiling, how the evidence was thin.”

“He was, it was.”

“So, Mike, Johnny and I figured, the shooter figures you're the easiest one to get to, a journalist, and it was you who made Evil famous. His loved one is gone, Evil is living the big-shot life, so take it out on you.”

“Well, just saying that's true. You think he's done? Like, who's next?”