I took some time to process what I had just learned and started strategizing what to do about it. As I had guessed, my bald biker friend had something to do with the evil babes from jail, probably was the same guy who used to pick up Walanda, and almost assuredly was the guy that paid me and Al a visit at the Moody Blue. I wasn’t sure what I had, but I had a piece of thread to start pulling at. If Stephanie was due out tomorrow and headed for the Eagle Heights clinic, then I had a pretty good guess who might be taking her. I was guessing that if I hung out around the clinic long enough, I’d see a white pickup truck with a bald bastard behind the wheel who had something coming to him. As this ran through my mind, I glanced down at Al. He was uncomfortable and continued to struggle with his breathing.
The county jail discharged prisoners at 12:01 a.m., which was one of the classic strokes of incredible bureaucratic idiocy. A very high percentage of the people who wound up in county jail got there because of drugs, drinking, or other nocturnal happenings. The jail was located at the bottom of South Hill in Crawford’s worst ghetto. The inmates only had to walk out the door and head a block up the hill to get their first hit of crack or heroin. There was even a scum subset of dealers who waited on that block at 12:02 every night. Some women would leave the county lockup and wait for the first john to cruise by. There would be a $10 or $15 transaction and then the usual sexual procedure. That payment got them a couple of bumpies, as they were sometimes called, and a briefly interrupted crack addiction was reignited.
I had a couple of hours to kill before midnight and I was starving, so I headed over to AJ’s. Al was going to have to come in with me and AJ was probably going to give me shit for it, but I didn’t care. I parked right out in front, lifted Al off his seat, and carried him in the front door.
“Hey,” TC said. “Meat deliveries in the back.”
“Duffy-get the hell out of here with him. It’s against health laws,” AJ said.
“He’s a seeing-eye dog,” I said.
“For who?” Rocco said. “Midgets?”
“Look, AJ, he’s hurtin’ and I can’t leave him alone. Give me a break this time, will ya?”
AJ shook his head and muttered something and walked to the other end of the bar. He acted disgusted, but that was predictable and he didn’t put us out.
“Hey Duff, he’s one of those basket hounds, isn’t he?” Jerry Number One asked.
“That’s bassoon hound, jerkoff,” said Rocco. “They were originally bred to accompany the soldiers in the French and Indian War. The bassoonist called the men to battle.”
“I think it’s bastard hound, because they drool so much,” TC said.
“What the hell would drooling have to do with bastards?” Rocco said.
“It pisses everyone off and so that’s what they called them,” TC said. “God damn bastard hounds.”
“Fellas, he’s a basset hound,” I said. “They’re originally from France, and they’re bred to trail small game for hunting.” My Dogs For Dummies reading was paying off.
“That too,” Rocco grumbled.
Eventually they got around to asking me about the bumps and bruises Al and I had. I mentioned something about a fender bender and a bad day at the gym. That was enough for the Foursome because they were already on to their next discussion/argument-something about a choking dog spitting up a burglar’s fingers.
I decided to talk with Kelley.
“Hey-Kel.”
“What’s going on, Duff. Tough sparring session?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“That’s not from the ring.” Kelley didn’t ask-he was making a statement.
“Well…”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Before I could answer, Rocco interrupted us.
“God damn bastard hound!”
I spun around on my stool to see Al chomping through Rocco’s cheeseburger. He had ketchup on his nose.
“Shoo, shoo!” Rocco yelled.
“Rocco-he’s not a pigeon,” TC said. “What the hell are you telling him to shoo for?”
Al finished the cheeseburger and was sampling Rocco’s fries.
“Shoo, you bastard!” Rocco said.
I grabbed Al and gingerly carried him away from the bar and to one of the tables. Everyone thought it was hysterical, that is, everyone but Rocco.
“Sorry, Rock,” I said. “AJ-can you make Rocco another burger and get him a beer on me?”
“Bastard hound,” Rocco muttered.
“Certainly seems more fitting than bassoon hound now, doesn’t it, Rock?” Jerry Number Two said.
Rudy came in sweating up a storm, sat on the other side of the Foursome, and ordered a Foster’s and a sidecar of Hennessy. Poor Rudy looked like he was getting fatter as he sat there. The back of his neck looked like a pack of hotdogs and the fabric on his clothes looked as stressed as he did.
“Hey, Rude. What’s happening?” I asked.
“Bullshit, Duff. Nothin’ but bullshit,” he said, taking a pull off the Hennessy and leaving just about a sip left in his rocks glass.
“Gabbibb found cancer in two more of the park-beating victims.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Something weird is happening and I don’t know what. Either these guys are all eating something bad or the park is radioactive or something,” he said.
“How could all of these guys have such bad luck?” I asked.
“Well, it’s possible, just not very likely.”
“Hey Rude-why would Gabbibb have money in an offshore account?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was on the computer before me and I saw that he was on the Bank of Canary website.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Duff.” He swallowed the rest of the Hennessy. “He might be doing something shady with that electronic business he does with his cousin.”
“He was also on some Pakistani extremist site.”
“Duffy, what the fuck are you doing?” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You think he’s some sort of money-laundering political extremist trying to take over Crawford, New York?”
“I think he’s a shady asshole,” I said.
“I think there’s a lot of shady assholes around, but that doesn’t mean they’re all doing it on a giant scale.”
“Hey, how’s that shit going at work?”
“They’ve called a meeting with the hospital board of directors to decide whether they rescind my privileges.”
“I’m sorry, Rudy,” I said.
“Yeah, me too, Duff,” he said.
I finished off my third Schlitz and realized I’d better head out if I wanted to catch the 12:01 jail releases. I bid my farewells to the boys, scooped up Al, who winced a bit when I put pressure on his ribs, and walked to the Eldorado.
I slid in a compilation eight-track I made years ago of some of Elvis’s stuff. Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager and guru, was one of the stupidest music people ever. He had a tendency of burying some of Elvis’s greatest songs on albums that really sucked. “Burning Love,” for instance, was on an album with movie hits. I decided I would create my own compilations of my favorites and tell the Colonel to stick his marketing plan.
As Elvis went through his paces on “In the Ghetto,” I cruised into Crawford. I went right past Walanda’s house, which still had a washer on the little five-by-five front lawn, and the porch door was still banging off the wall in the wind. The rest of the neighborhood looked like it needed a shower and a good night’s sleep. This part of town was where my Polish grandparents lived, and in their day it was a poor but proud neighborhood. Folks from my generation who wouldn’t think of walking a block through one of these neighborhoods now like to point out that their ancestors had little money but kept the neighborhood looking beautiful.
That sort of mentality had elements of truth to it, but it also seemed oversimplified to me. Growing up black and poor was a whole lot different than growing up Polish or Irish or Italian and poor. I’m not exactly sure why, but I believe it has something to do with one’s ancestors being sold as property for centuries. I know that doesn’t happen now, but I think the residual effects on our culture linger. I’m sure people a whole lot smarter than me could explain it better.
I parked my car near the top of the hill three blocks from the jail. My ’76 burnt orange Eldorado was a lot of things, but inconspicuous wasn’t one of them. Al and I walked down the street to get a look at the front doors of the county jail. The two-block walk took us past three guys selling crack and two women who offered to gratify a very specific desire of mine for ten dollars. Interestingly enough, the crack dealers were selling two rocks of crack for the same price.
The second woman dropped her price down to five dollars, and when I looked closer at her I realized she was a former client of mine whose case I recently closed.
“Teresa?” I asked.
“Yeah? Oh, Duff, it’s you… er… this isn’t what it looks like, man… I… uh,” she stopped in mid-sentence. Though her mind was fixated on nothing but crack, she still realized the absurdity of denying what she was doing, especially after just offering to perform an unmentionable act on me for five dollars.
“Teresa, be careful, please. Come in to the clinic tomorrow. Promise me.”
She started to cry and turned and walked up the street. I couldn’t think of anything sadder. By the time she reached the corner, she was already offering herself to the crackheads and johns walking by.
I would’ve pursued her, but I wanted to be in position by midnight and we had just five minutes. Al stood in the darkness next to a tree one block from the jail. I would’ve turned up my collar and smoked a cigarette like any self-respecting private eye, but I had on a hooded sweatshirt and I don’t smoke.
A Lexus SUV pulled up in the “No Parking” area in front of the jail at 11:58. The Lexus SUV was the pimpmobile of our times, replacing the Cadillac and Lincoln. I suppose today’s pimps did a lot of camping.
A black guy wearing a bright blue, baggy FUBU warm-up got out of the Lexus, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the front fender. He was a ways away but he looked like he could’ve been the guy from the website with Shony. The Lexus had gold trim all over it, and someone had taken great pains to wax the thing.
At 12:01, half a dozen people walked out of the front door. There were five men and one woman. Two of the men hooted and hollered when they walked out and gave each other high-fives. The other two men went in opposite directions, both lighting up cigarettes as if choreographed.
The woman was Stephanie, and she walked toward the Lexus. The black guy put out his cigarette and, without any acknowledgement toward Stephanie, got in the Lexus and started it up. Stephanie got into the passenger seat and the Lexus drove away.
I looked down to my private-eye partner, Al, and said, “I think we just met Tyrone.”
I didn’t have a whole lot of time to bask in the pride of my tremendous detective work. Before Al and I could step off the curb in the direction of the Eldorado, there was a screeching of tires and the slamming of doors, followed by a bunch of yelling.
“Hands up, hands in the air!” the guy jumping out of the silver Crown Victoria said. He was wearing a blue blazer with gray pants, though I didn’t get the color of his tie because I was busy looking at the gun pointed at my chest. He had a partner who had circled around the car and he, too, had his gun drawn.
I tried to put my hands in the air, but that pulled Al’s leash, which caused him to yelp and then bark. Both suits focused their guns on Al momentarily, then back at me. I could tell they couldn’t make up their minds which of us was more dangerous.
“Sorry-what do you want me to do?” I said.
“Make the dog shut up,” came from blue blazer who seemed to be in charge of talking. He had a Middle Eastern complexion with slicked-back, very dark hair and very bushy eyebrows.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I said.
The other guy who looked about twenty-five was about five foot eleven, 185 pounds. He had blond hair and it looked like he didn’t shave yet.
Al just kept barking and the two guys looked bewildered. I probably would have been much more frightened if Al wasn’t making such a racket. Too much was happening too fast.
“Tie the dog to the streetlight and get in the car,” Blue Blazer said.
“He’s not going to like that.”
“You think we’re playing games here!” He waved the gun toward the pole.
I tied Al to the pole, which thoroughly pissed him off. Then I got into the back seat with the two guns pointed at my face. The Middle Eastern guy had a pockmarked face and perfect white teeth, which made for a strange combination. Blondie had a slightly turned-up nose, which made him look even more juvenile than he already did.
Al wouldn’t shut up and the noise was deafening, even with the windows up.
“What do you know about Alfinuu?” Pockmark said.
“Not much, just-”
“Stop fucking around, sticking your head where it doesn’t belong.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Leave things alone.”
“What are you talking about?” This was getting weird.
“Alfinuu is nothing to mess with. Stay away-it’s a matter of national security.”
“Don’t you guys have to tell me who you are?”
“Duffy, you watch too many movies,” Pock said, which caused his pubescent partner to snicker. “Never mind about the girl too.”
“The girl?”
“Don’t fuck around with us. Do what you’re told. Go to the gym, go do some counseling, I don’t care, but stop looking into things that ain’t your business.” He paused for emphasis. “You hear me? Leave it alone-all of it.”
The car got quiet, which all of a sudden made me realize Al wasn’t barking. I looked at the streetlamp and Al’s collar and leash were there and he was gone.
“Al!” I yelled and went to bolt out the door but they were locked. “He’s gone-let me out.”
Pockmark laughed at me. “Word to the wise, Duff-do what you’re told and leave things alone. Now, get out of here and go find your fuckin’ dog.”
I heard the electric locks disengage and I ran out the car and into the street screaming for Al. I had no idea how to find a runaway dog, and in my panic I wasn’t being terribly strategic. I sprinted up one street and down the other, getting funny looks from the street whores and low-level crack dealers.
“Allah-King, Allah-King!” I screamed until I was hoarse. I was looking down driveways, in alleys, and behind abandoned buildings. Between the running and my anxiety I could feel myself running out of gas.
In the distance, a couple of blocks over, I thought I heard something. I didn’t waste time running around the block-I ran right through four backyards, jumping fences, and two streets over, I saw him and it dawned on me. This was where I should have started the search.
Al was on Walanda’s porch scratching at the front door, whimpering and then barking out of frustration.
“C’mere boy, it’s all right, it’s all right,” I said. It took him a little while to come to me, and when he did, he looked up and whimpered.
“It’s okay, buddy. Let’s go home,” I said.
We started to walk and he stopped and looked back at the house a couple of times.
I thought about the jail, I thought about Tyrone, and I thought about my visit from the men in the Crown Vic. I thought about Walanda and I thought about Shony. I thought about Al.
And I thought I’d be damned if I was going to leave anything alone.