Untitled (11 page)

  "Cool," said Nita.

  "We got the shit covered," said Dake. "It's all under control."

  Moses moved quickly up the stairs to the master bedroom. It was even more beautiful than the living room downstairs. Moses looked around, then went to a crude-looking stump on the floor by a fireplace. A fireplace in the bedroom, thought Moses. Some people had it all.

  Moses took out some tools and began to open the safe. He had the combination, but he needed to make it look good. The big Grosse Pointe home belonged to Arnold Brown, a wealthy banker and financier. Arnold's son, Ernest, was a typical rich boy, arrogant and rebellious. Ernest was dating a black girl and doing a lot of drugs. He'd gotten in deep with a local drug dealer named Wiz, and his parents were not going to bail him out again.

  Moses found out about Ernest's situation and bought out his debt. In return, Ernest supplied him with the combination to his parents' safe. It was a fair trade, he thought, and Mom and Dad were probably heavily insured.

  Moses took out a crowbar, and lifted the face off the safe. It made a loud noise. He stopped and reached in his pocket and took out the paper with the combination. Suddenly, he heard an electronic beep. It was muted and distant. He looked around nervously, and waited. Silence. He started to go and check on Nita and Dake, but thought better of it. Probably just a digital clock, he thought. He quickly started on the safe. He punched the code into the keyboard and the door hissed open. Inside, he saw four thick stacks of cash, papers, and five jewelry boxes.

  "Damn," he whispered to himself. He was excited and tingled all over. God, he loved stealing. It was like making your own Christmas. And he'd always loved the holiday. He and his brother always had to share presents, though.

  He felt anger as he thought of his family. His father's murder had devastated the family. But he and Marshall had not been thrown closer together by it. Moses had loved his father, and the pain of losing him drove them both to the street. But Marshall had abandoned him, left him for a skinny white boy and his so-called better intentions. Soon, his love of family was replaced with a love of taking what was not his.

  Moses pushed the faces of his family out of his mind and grabbed the cash and stuffed it into his bag. Then he started on the jewelry boxes. They went into the bag. He sifted through the papers to see if anything else might be of use. But it was just stocks, bonds, the usual nonusable crap. It took some extra time, but a good thief is thorough. In a house like this, something innocent-looking might be worth millions. He carefully looked through everything in the safe. Then he saw a gun inside the safe at the bottom. It was a silver-plated .22. He took that too.

  He got up and left the room, leaving the safe open. He hurried downstairs. He got to the foot of the stairs, but did not see Dake and Nita.

  "Fuck," he said. They were the dumbest people on the planet. They had to move.

  Suddenly, Moses heard a sound from behind him. He turned and saw a figure standing in a shooting crouch.

  "Dake? What the f—"

  The figure yelled something Moses could not understand, then fired.

  The shot went wide and Moses dodged, falling to the floor. He pulled out his own gun and returned fire. The dark figure ran behind a table.

  "Police!" a man's voice yelled.

  Moses did not recognize the voice. It was not Dake's or Nita's voice. It was a cop, but how? He must have fucked up the alarm, he thought vaguely as he hid behind a sofa in the living room.

  "We got you hemmed in!" said a voice.

  This voice was different from the first. There were two of them now, he thought. Moses' mind raced. He was clean just a moment ago, and now there were two cops right on his ass.

  Suddenly, Moses saw one of them move, and a glint of light flashed from a torso. A badge, he thought. That meant a uniformed cop. There were probably only two of them, then. Normally, the uniforms were the first on the scene. He knew if he didn't get out now, the place would be crawling with cops soon.

  Dake and Nita were probably outside, handcuffed in a police cruiser, he reasoned. It pained him, but it was part of the job. They knew the score. His job now was to get out in one piece. If he went back to prison again, it would not be good for him. His rap sheet was long, and today's judges were all unforgiving bastards.

  He stood up and ran for the door. He fired at the shadows in the big room as he sidestepped to the door. One of the cops fired a shot that missed. It hit a big grandfather clock, shattering its face. Another shot rang out, and Moses felt his shoulder explode in pain. He was thrown back and fell into the big glass door, breaking it into pieces.

  He landed outside on the hard pavement. His head hit first, and he saw a flash of light. He heard footsteps, and soon the cops were above him. Moses' head snapped to the side as one of them kicked him in the side of the head. He tried to get up, but more blows crashed into his body. He felt blood from his shoulder run down his arm as he was kicked hard in the abdomen and fell to the ground. His head hit the pavement again, and he slipped into blackness.

M
arshall watched Danny Cavanaugh walk into the bar at Fishbone's in downtown Detroit. The place was packed, and the smell of Cajun food filled his lungs. Danny was a big man. Six four and about two twenty. His red hair literally shined in the light of the bar. He moved around a patron and made his way over to his friend. Marshall sat at the bar with a full beer and a big tray of Fishbone's specialty, alligator voodoo, fried alligator meat.

  "Danny boy!" Marshall called out to him.

  "Wha'sup, my brotha?" yelled Danny.

  As usual, a few people, black and white, looked shocked to hear the black voice coming from the face of a white man. Marshall was used to it. He smiled as Danny walked toward him.

  "Party started without me, I see," said Danny. They hugged, and Marshall felt better already.

  When they were younger the other black kids made fun of them, called them "The Swirl," which was the name for chocolate and vanilla soft-serve ice cream swirled together on a cone. It was also slang for a black and white couple. The young boys hated the name, and had had many fights because of it.

  Years later, when Danny's wife left him, he moved in with Marshall for a while. They kidded each other about the name. The Swirl had made a comeback.

  "How's Vinny?" asked Marshall.

"Still in love with me," said Danny.

  "Only God understands that." Marshall laughed. "Isn't it dangerous to be dating your partner. I mean, you piss her off one day, and bam, she shoots you?"

  "Never happen. So, what's the problem?" Danny ordered a beer.

  "Man can't have a drink with his best friend?" said Marshall.

  "Not on a weeknight. Not when he's got the hottest case since the mayor got smoked. How's that goin'?"

  "You know I can't talk about it."

  "Well, I say good riddance to that muthafucka Douglas. He never did the brothers any good."

  "Not your kind of brother, huh?" Marshall laughed.

  "Goddamned skippy," said Danny. "That old fart Douglas was just a puppet for rich folks and fuckin' everybody else."

  Marshall was silent for a second, then: "Chemin and I got into it again."

  Danny lowered his head, then looked at Marshall with compassion. "Jesus, you are a pussy! Back in the old country, we'd feed her a couple of her own teeth, and she'd shut the hell up." He laughed.

  "Yes, but in
this
country, you do that, and a big muthafucka like you crashes the party."

  "You got that shit right." Danny's beer came, and they clinked glasses.

  A pretty black woman walked up to the bar and placed an order. Danny caught her eye, and she smiled.

  "Excuse me," Danny said and he was off to the races. He returned a moment later, folding a cocktail napkin into his pocket.

  "No fuckin' way you got her number that quick," said Marshall.

  "Yes fuckin' way. You forget, I ain't some married muthafucka like you."

  "So what you gonna do with it? You live with Vinny. I know she don't let you date."

  "I ain't gonna call the woman. I'm just keepin' my shit sharp, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Damn, I miss that," said Marshall. "I used to love women."

  "Be happy," said Danny. "You got a good life. Chemin is a hard woman, but a good one. Trust me, I know."

  "Yeah, but I'm about to lose her," Marshall said. Even he could hear the tinge of sadness in his voice.

  "Look, you know I love Chemin, but don't let her run your life. She's got to know that you the man, you know?"

  "Spoken like a divorced-ass loser," said Marshall, laughing.

  Danny downed his beer and ordered another. "Okay, I know we're supposed to be all sensitive and shit nowadays, but unless something wrong happened, you still got a dick."

  "Well, I haven't been using it lately."

  "You know what I mean. It's the law of nature. You gotta rule. If she can't handle that, then let her go find another man who'll put up with her shit."

  "You tried that, and ended up losing half your shit."

  "Damn, that was hard," said Danny. "True, but hard. But it's still a fact someone has got to rule; if it ain't you, then it's got to be her."

  Marshall took this in. Danny was a little crude, but there was always wisdom in his words. "As usual, your logic is all fucked up, but ultimately inescapable."

  "Well, I may not be a rich-ass lawyer like you, but I know me a couple of things here and there."

  "Shit, I ain't rich. In fact, you're picking up the tab tonight." They laughed again.

  "So, I made a good bust today," said Danny. "I think it's gonna help me get that detective's shield."

  "What about your record, did you take care of that yet?"

  Danny averted his eyes a little. "Well, that shit's still following me, you know."

  "Dammit, Danny, you can't keep breaking the head of every guy you arrest."

  "I got a job to do, and I only know one way to do it, you know?"

  "But no one's gonna make you a detective when your IAD file is as thick as the Bible. You need to stop feeding the Narcs and Homicide guys all your leads and collars, and rehabilitate your image."

  "Fuck that. I want to be a detective, but I'm not gonna be some faggot in a suit."

  Marshall visibly bristled. "Is that what I am?"

  "I never said that." Danny took a long drink of beer.

  Marshall stood up and looked Danny in the eye. Both men were big, and several people at the bar noticed the tension.

  "You always go there with me. You're still upset that I became a lawyer instead of going to the police academy with you."

  "Hey, I admit I don't like it, but I've made peace with the shit, all right?"

  "Don't insult me because you can't control your violent streak."

  "You know I hate that!" Danny slammed his beer glass on the counter. Suddenly, he realized what he had done, and the irony of it. "Look, man, I'm sorry," he said.

  Marshall sat back down on the bar stool. "It's okay, I was out of line too."

  The two men looked at each other and their history seemed to pass, then they hugged and ordered more beer.

  Marshall always marveled at his times with Danny. There was still a lot of racial strife in the country, and yet they had bypassed all of it and never questioned their friendship. Maybe it was because they had been thrown together in family turmoil, or because they'd served together under stress in the marines. It seemed there was always something bigger than their differences to hold them together. Whatever it was, he wished he could give it to everyone, because he loved his friend dearly.

  "Okay, I'll take your advice," said Danny. "I can do some of that goddamned antiaggression training shit the bosses like so much."

  "That's a good start. Great. Let me know if you need any help." Marshall thought a moment, then: "And I'll take your advice. I'll just have to get to the bottom of this thing with Chemin and let the chips fall, you know."

  "Now you talkin' like the nigga I know and love." Danny smiled.

  The bartender, a slight black man, frowned when he heard Danny's statement. Marshall caught his look and quickly shot back: "Yeah, he said
nigga
. But you see, he's a nigga, too."

  "That's right," said Danny. "I'm what they call a high yellow." He laughed.

  "See, he's black, he just don't show it. It's in here." Marshall pointed to his heart.

  "And here." Danny pointed to his crotch. They laughed loudly, and the bartender smiled with them.

T
he tapping at Marshall's door was light as always. He always found this a curious quality of Judge Stephen Bradbury. Bradbury was an ordinary-looking man. His bland features and balding head made him seem even more unremarkable. But Bradbury was in fact a brilliant man. The average person would look at him and see a bus driver or an accountant. Marshall saw only greatness.

  "Come on in, Judge," said Marshall.

  Stephen Bradbury walked into Marshall's office with a big smile on his face. He was elegant in a charcoal gray suit and blood red tie. Bradbury was approaching sixty, but he didn't look it. He was a former track star at Yale, and he still kept himself in great shape.

  "Well, so you finally caught a big fish, huh?" said Bradbury. His voice was deep and soothing, the kind you might hear from a disc jockey late at night. He sat down across from Marshall.

  "Yeah, I wanted to call you when I got it but—"

  "I know." Bradbury took a seat. "It gets crazy. I used to be in your shoes. So, how's it going?"