Trust Me (11 page)

    The judge, a black dude with a chip on his shoulder, told O'Clair he was a disgrace to the men and women of the Detroit Police Department and gave him nineteen months.

    O'Clair's attorney, Mike Solner, said he was the victim of a federal consent decree signed by the U.S. Justice Department and the Detroit police, to help stop violating the civil rights of citizens mistreated by city cops.

    O'Clair said, "Huh? Want to run that by me again?"

    Solner said O'Clair's record didn't help, the fact that he'd shot two people in three years and there had been two lawsuits against him, one dropped, one settled, the city of Detroit paying $400,000 in damages.

    He dug a stained, bent Styrofoam cup out from the crease where the front seats met and poured coffee from a thermos into it. He took a sip and put the cup on the dash. Steam curled up, fogging a circle of windshield. He unwrapped a salami sandwich and took a bite, chewing as he watched the parking lot begin to fill up with SUVs. They were taking over—big, hard to park, bad on gas and preferred by women, the worst drivers in the world. He didn't get it.

    O'Clair was watching all these good-looking suburban women come out of Starbucks and he tried to remember the last time he'd gotten laid, had to really think about it. What was her name? Cindy, yeah, that was it. She said she worked for a publishing company in the telecommunications department. What she really did, she called people at night after their long hard day and tried to sell them magazine subscriptions. That pain-in-the-ass call you got when you were having your supper.

    Cindy had said, "You wouldn't believe how rude people can be. What I'm selling benefits them, enriches their lives, and they're giving me a hard time because I'm interrupting their precious evening."

    After they'd gone out a few times, she started asking questions about money, probing into O'Clair's life. They were sitting at the bar at Mr. B's in Royal Oak, O'Clair drinking Jim Beam and water and Cindy sipping a 7 & 7.

    "Do you own your house?" Cindy wanted to know. "Belong to a country club? Invest in the stock market?"

    The questions all related to money. O'Clair said, "You want to know how much money I have?" He swigged his bourbon. "I have enough to buy you the 7 & 7 you're drinking and maybe another one, you stop asking questions that aren't any of your fucking business."

    She thought they had a future together, did he? O'Clair wondered if maybe she was hard of hearing, looked at her, said, no, finished his drink and walked out of the bar.

    He'd never had very good luck with women. Married a dental hygienist named Joan right out of prison. She was Armenian, full- body with a bush so dense she could've shaved it and knit a sweater. At dinner, Joan would tell him about people's teeth, using words like plaque and gingivitis. O'Clair'd be eating his stuffed peppers as she'd describe how bacteria caused tooth decay, periodontal problems and halitosis.

    "If only their home care was better. You know you should floss more yourself, mister, once a day, at least."

    "I'm trying to eat my dinner," O'Clair said. "Can we talk about something else?"

    One of Joan's sisters—who was the size of an East African rhino—had just had her stomach stapled so she wouldn't eat herself to death. "Mary's lost eighty pounds," Joan said. "And the poor thing's having terrible gas."

    That's how she changed the subject.

    O'Clair had met Joan in the dentist's office. She cleaned his teeth one evening, the last appointment of the day. She'd joked around with him, the only two people in the office, and banged him in the dental chair after she finished flossing him. She took off her blue scrubs and climbed on top. It was O'Clair's best trip to the dentist ever. If getting laid was part of the deal, Jesus, more guys would have their teeth cleaned. They'd be lining up.

    Things went downhill fast after their wedding in the Armenian church with the gold dome near Northland. A friend of O'Clair's asked him when he knew the marriage was in trouble and O'Clair said, the day I proposed. Joan moved out after three months, and he hadn't seen or talked to her since.

    At noon O'Clair got out of the Caddy and walked behind the drugstore and took a leak next to a green Dumpster and almost gave a stock boy a heart attack as he came out the back door and saw a big middle-age dude with his pecker out taking a wiz. O'Clair said hello to him and the kid ran to the door and disappeared inside.

    O'Clair walked down to the pizza place and ordered a meatball sub and a Coke. The kid behind the counter said five minutes, and gave him a cup. He filled it with Coke and went out the back door and looked down the alley. There was a delivery truck parked and a guy in a brown uniform unloading boxes. Beyond the truck, Jesus Christ, was a red Mustang parked next to Mail Boxes, and Bobby was coming out, shuffling through his mail.

    O'Clair dropped the Coke and ran through Little Caesars, knocked a balding dad in a golf outfit on his ass. He heard the kid behind the counter yell, Sir, your sub's ready.

    He ran across the parking lot, going as fast as he could with his knee, the pain slowing him down. He got in the Caddy, fired it up and punched the accelerator as a white GMC Yukon backed out of a space in front of him. O'Clair laid on the horn. The driver's door flew open. O'Clair floored it, swerved around the Yukon, ripping the door clean off. He saw the driver in the rearview mirror, running after him. He swerved around a woman with a shopping cart, turned right and then left out of the parking lot. No sign of the Mustang. He went right on a side street, gunned it, and saw a glimpse of red sheet metal turning on to Rochester Road.

    O'Clair caught up to him just before Sixteen Mile, passing a Wendy's, a Taco Bell, a Bob Evans, picturing the food at each place, knowing what he'd get and getting hungry. He followed Bobby to Somerset, stayed with him as he cut through the mall parking lot, O'Clair worried now that Bobby was going shopping. But he wasn't; he was going to the Somerset Apartment complex that must've been a mile long. O'Clair hung with him through a maze of streets until Bobby finally turned into a driveway and pulled into a carport.

    O'Clair parked on the street and watched Bobby go into a tan-brick apartment building. The place looked pretty good to O'Clair. Somerset. It was called Sin City when it first opened, all the single professionals shacking up, a party on every balcony. It still looked that way, good-looking babes everywhere. You'd have to be a paraplegic not to score here.

    There was a golf course that ran through the middle of the complex. All Bobby had to do was walk out his back door and tee off. There was a pool too. He could see girls in lounge chairs through the bars in the fence. It was a nice setup. O'Clair should get out of his dingy bungalow in Ferndale and move here.

    He scanned the directory. There he was: R. Gal in apartment 22B.

    The door to the building had a cheap lock with a lot of give. O'Clair picked it and went in. He saw the staircase and went up to the second floor and followed apartment numbers as he moved down the hall and saw Bobby in the doorway of his place talking to a dark-haired girl in a bathing suit.

    O'Clair went back to the Caddy, sat in the driver's seat, started the car, and checked the rearview mirror. An SUV was approaching. He let it pass and made a U-turn, creeping by Bobby's building. He'd come back later. The hard part was done. If Bobby still had the money, it would be in the apartment-under the mattress or behind the toilet or in the ceiling—some of the classic places people used, thinking they were being clever.

    Karen was sitting behind the wheel of a Chrysler minivan Bobby and Lloyd had stolen off the used car lot at Jim Fresard Pontiac in Royal Oak. She was about to take her ex-boyfriend's safe, trusting three guys she barely knew. She felt a jolt of nerves, the full impact weighing on her now. She adjusted the electric seat to get comfortable while she watched the house. She was parked between Samir's and his neighbor's to the south, and had a clear view of the front door and the circular drive flanked by giant gold lions. The lions, Samir had once told her, were a symbol of the power and wealth of the Fakir family.

    In a few minutes, she'd pull up to the front door and pick up the safe. But going through with it was a lot more difficult than planning it. For the first time she wasn't in control. Before Bobby, Lloyd and Wade got out of the van Karen had said, Don't say anything unless you have to. Don't make it personal, and whatever you do, don't shoot anyone. She didn't think Samir would involve the police. He'd take care of things himself, in his own way, unless someone was shot. Then he wouldn't have a choice. Karen saw headlights in the rearview mirror. She ducked down as a car approached, slowing as it passed her, a VW Jetta, and parked in front of Samir's house. She could see two people in the front seat, their heads coming together, probably kids making out. This was going to be a problem. She'd have to get rid of them and do it fast.

    In the kitchen, Ricky said, "You'd like some of that wouldn't you? That's the centerfold. You're lookin' at Playmate of the Month." Moozie didn't seem to understand; he just wanted to see more pictures. The magazine was open on the kitchen table. Moozie was sitting across from him, staring at the airbrushed girl who had nothing on except fur boots and a fur hat. Ricky said, "Check her out, the pride of Juneau, Alaska." He glanced at Moozie, whose eyes were glued to the page. "Her turn-ons-you ready for this?—men who sweat. You got that covered. Riding her Jet Ski and honest people. Her turn-offs-oh, shit-dirty fingernails, bad breath and hair in the shower. Sorry, Mooz, you just struck out." Ricky grinned having some fun with his cousin from Beirut. He opened the centerfold all the way and gave the magazine to Moozie. "Here, you want to look at it. Just don't slobber on the pages, okay?"

    They ate out of Styrofoam boxes, too late for dinner with Samir. Moozie hadn't touched his, feasting instead on the sculpted close-up of the girl's cootch. It looked strange, Ricky thought, that ugly little thing with folds of skin that men sold their souls for. "You don't want that, I'll take it," Ricky said, half finished with his meal, eyeing the one in front of Moozie.

    Moozie opened the white box now and picked up a piece of grilled, marinated chicken with his fingers, taking his time. He put the chicken in his mouth chewing the meat, licking his fingertips, eyes still glued to the centerfold.

    Ricky spilled tomato sauce on his yellow warm-up, rubbed it with a napkin and made it worse. It was Ricky's favorite outfit: pale yellow with black stripes down the sleeves and pants. He thought it reeked of class. He was going to teach Moozie how to dress. His cousin looked like he crawled into a Salvation Army drop box, grabbed some things that didn't match and put them on in the dark.

    They were going at it, all right, mashing and pawing at each other, but there was something strange. It was two guys with their arms around each other, making out, two suburban teenagers in khaki shorts and T-shirts. Karen stood next to the car, looking in the open driver's window, and said, "I'm with Neighborhood Watch. I'm not going to tell your parents. Just get out of here and don't come back." It must've sounded believable. The two guys stopped kissing and looked at Karen. Neither of them said a word. The Jetta started and accelerated, tires spinning, kicking up stones and dirt. Karen watched as they took off down the street.

    In the living room, Samir sat on a white leather couch with Minde, one of the Automotion dancers he'd seen performing at halftime at a Pistons game, and arranged to meet. Minde was an auto parts model hoping to turn that into acting.

    "I act when I perform," she'd said to Samir on their first date at the Phoenicia, a restaurant in Birmingham. "I become different people expressing different feelings. I might be Helen of Troy one night, or Joan of Arc. Great heroines of the past."

    Samir didn't care who the hell she was as long as she would go to bed with him later, and she did, Minde with her long dancer's legs bending into positions he'd never seen before. She was something, all right, until she opened her mouth and started talking and never stopped.

    They were watching Samir's favorite program,
Desperate Housewives,
on a fifty-inch flat screen. There was a close-up of Eva Longoria in a dramatic scene, her face filling the screen.

    Minde said, "Smoothie," cuddling next to him, "do you think she's prettier than me?"

    He wasn't listening, he couldn't take his eyes away from the TV.

    "Smoothie, I'm talkin' to you."

    Eva was making out with the gardener.