Hornet's Nest (17 page)

“Rudof, pull up your pants, son,” Mama complained. “You gonna trip and break your neck. Same with you, Joshua. I swear.” She wheeled ahead in the night, in the direction of their poor apartment.

Brazil and West were quiet as they got back on Wilkinson Boulevard. He was thinking about what she’d said to that family. West had said
we
several times, when most people would have said
I
, as if Brazil wasn’t there. It felt really good when she included him, and he was touched by her gentleness with that wounded, hateful family. Brazil wanted to say something to West, to let her know, to somehow show his appreciation. But he was oddly tongue-tied again, just as he had been with Hammer.

West headed back into the city, thinking, and wondering why her ride-along was so quiet. Maybe he was angry with her for avoiding calls, or trying to avoid them, at any rate. She felt bad. How would she like it were the roles reversed? It wasn’t very kind, and he had every right to resent her for it. West was totally ashamed of herself. She turned up the scanner, and picked up the mike.

“700,” she said.

“700,” the dispatcher came back.

“I’m ten-eight.”

Brazil couldn’t believe it. West had just told the radio that she was in service, meaning she wanted to take calls like everyone else on the street. The two of them would actually be assigned situations. They were available for trouble. This wasn’t long in coming. Their first call was to Our Lady of Consolation Catholic Church.

“Check for loud music coming from the club in the shopping center across the street,” came the instruction over the air.

The dispatcher’s nickname was Radar, and there were reasons for this. First, Radar had started his career with the North Carolina Highway Patrol, where he was famous for clocking cars, abutments, buildings, trucks, signs, pedestrians, low-flying planes, helium balloons, trees, and nailing all for exceeding the speed limit. He simply loved the radar gun. He deeply loved being a Smoky out on life’s highways and pulling the unaware outlaws as they hurried to important places or away from them. Radar retired. He bought an RV and began a new career as a dispatcher to pay for it. It was believed by the 911 operators that Radar could sense trouble before it hit. The call at the church, for example, he had a feeling about, a real bad one.

Thus he had assigned it to Deputy Chief West, because it was Radar’s personal conviction that no woman should be in a uniform unless she was naked beneath it and on the cover of those detective magazines he also loved. In addition to an intuition that bordered on the psychic, Radar knew that the respondent in this case, Fat Man’s Lounge, was run by a bunch of thugs who held his same beliefs about a woman’s place. Colt, the bouncer, whom Radar personally knew, would not respond well when West with all her brass, ass, and big tits rolled up.

West knew none of this as she lit a cigarette and made a U-turn on Statesville Avenue. She nodded at the MDT. “It took
me forty minutes to learn how to use this thing,” she said to Brazil. “You got ten.”

Our Lady of Consolation Catholic Church was having a special night of music, and the parking lot was packed with cars. Listings for Catholic places of worship were brief in the Charlotte Yellow Pages. Choices were far more abundant for churches that were Baptist, Advent Christian, Presbyterian, Apostolic, Assembly of God, Evangelical, Pentecostal, Non-Pentecostal, Gospel, Full Gospel, Foursquare Gospel, to name but a few. These outnumbered the Catholics about twenty-eight to one.

Indeed, Catholic places of worship were sandwiched between the one Buddhist church in the city and the charismatics who spoke in tongues. So it was, that Catholics did not take their church for granted, never knowing when it might be burned by men in disguises or criticized in editorials. The congregation of Our Lady of Consolation was rocking the block this night, its stained glass windows glowing in the dark, Jesus bright and colorful in many poses, and sheep.

“You sure it isn’t the bar complaining about the church?” Brazil wondered out loud.

West was finding the situation rather odd, too. How the hell could anyone inside that church hear a thing beyond their own choir, which was belting out some hymn and accompanied by guitars, the organ, drums, and possibly a violin or two. She turned into the shopping center directly across the street and cut through the parking lot. Fat Man’s Lounge wasn’t doing nearly the business the church was. A couple of shifty-looking dudes were hanging out in front, drinking beer, smoking, and glaring.

Brazil did not hear any noise, not one sound drifting out of the lounge. He suspected someone in the church had complained just to hassle Fat Man’s, which clearly was a den of iniquity. Members of Our Lady would, without a doubt, have preferred another establishment across the street from them, something wholesome and family-oriented, like a Shoney’s, a Blockbuster Video store, or maybe another sports bar. The dudes out front followed the cop car with hostile eyes as
West parked. She and Brazil got out and approached their welcoming committee.

“Where’s all the noise?” West asked. “We got a complaint.”

“Only noise is that over there,” a dude said, jutting his chin at the church. He boldly took a swig of beer, drunk and mean.

“Word’s the noise is coming from here.” West held her ground.

She started walking toward the lounge, Brazil with her, the dudes moving out of their way. Fat Man’s was a depressing, dark den, smoke hanging in the air and music playing, but not too loudly. Men were drinking at wooden tables, watching a woman on stage, in g-string and tassels, as she twirled heavy, sagging breasts. Brazil didn’t want to stare too hard, but he was pretty sure that the left one was tattooed with the planet Saturn, bright yellow, with rings orbiting fast. In big circles. These were, without a doubt, the biggest breasts he had ever seen in person.

The stripper, whose stage name was Minx, needed another Valium. She was thirsty, had to have a cigarette, and damn it all, the fucking cops were here. What this time? She started twirling the other way, then did two different directions at once. This usually got the men going, but tonight’s stingy crowd was about as excitable as a cemetery. Minx smiled. The boy cop couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Never seen tits before?” she asked him as he went by.

Brazil was indifferent. West shot Minx a cool look, and thought the stripper’s fried egg tattoo on her left breast was rather clever, not to mention apropos. Lord, this one even had stretch marks, cellulite, her clients not interested in anything that wasn’t in a glass. Colt, the bouncer, was the exception. He was heading at the cops like a freight train on a mission. He was big and scary in a shiny black suit, thick gold chains, and a red leather tie. He looked like he might hurt them, starting with Brazil.

“We got a complaint of loud music,” West said to Colt.

“You hear it?” Colt lifted his heavy jaw, veins like ropes in his powerful neck.

He was full of hate toward these white cops, especially the bitch. Who did she think she was anyway, strutting into Fat Man’s in her fancy uniform with all its shiny shit meant to hurt hard-working people like him? He glanced at Minx, making sure she wasn’t letting up. It seemed not a night went by when he didn’t have to smack a little more energy into her, give her pain someplace where it wouldn’t show, encouraging her to do her job. She was slinging away. Nobody cared. Nobody tipped. Two of the regulars were getting up, and leaving, the night still young. The cops were to blame.

Colt jerked open the side door leading out into an alleyway. He grabbed Brazil by the front of his uniform shirt with such force, it ripped.

“Heyyyy!”
Brazil yelled.

Colt lifted the punk off his feet and threw him outside in the trash, where he belonged. Garbage cans clattered against pavement, bottles clanging. It was just a good thing Brazil was dirty, anyway. He got to his feet in time to see West whipping out her handcuffs. Colt had her by her uniform shirt, intending to pitch her, too, as the little shit yelled
“Mayday! Mayday!”
into his police radio.

C
olt gagged, and for a blinding shard of insight thought someone had shoved a pool cue into the hollow of his massive neck. It seeped into his fading consciousness that the bitch was drilling her index finger into that soft hollow over his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe. His tongue protruded as she drilled and he gagged, gasping for air, eyes bugging as he dropped to his knees, a gun barrel now staring at his nose. Colt’s ears were ringing, blood roaring as the bitch screamed like she was going to eat him tartare.

“You move I’ll blow your brains out motherfucker!”

Minx gyrated. Patrons drank. Backup cops burst through the front door, far away across the dark, smoky room. West had a knee on Colt’s beefy back, and was busy snapping cuffs on his wrists tight behind him. Brazil looked on in awe. Cops hauled Colt and the drunk dudes to jail. Minx saw her chance and walked off her runway, plucking lousy folded dollar bills out of her garter, wrapping up in a sweatshirt, and lighting a cigarette, out of here for good this time.

“Why did I let you get me into this?” West was saying as she unlocked their car. “I don’t do this anymore for a reason.” She climbed in, yanking the seatbelt across her chest, cranking the engine.

Both of them were excited and trying not to show it.
Brazil held together his ruined uniform shirt, which was missing half its buttons. West noted that he had a very well-developed chest to go with those shoulders and arms and legs. She instantly stopped transmitting any and all signals, such as body language or glances or words or heat. Where was all this coming from anyway? Outer space. Not from her. No sir. She opened the glove box and rummaged until she found the tiny stapler she was sure was in there somewhere.

“Hold still,” she said to him, as if it were an order.

She leaned close because there was no other way to correct the situation and gathered his shirt together, and began stapling. Brazil’s heart picked up. He could smell her hair, his own seeming to stand on end. He did not move. He was terrified even to breathe as her fingers brushed against him. He was convinced she could tell what he was feeling, and if he as much as twitched and inadvertently touched her somewhere, she would never believe it was an accident. She’d think he was just one more prick out there who couldn’t keep it in his pants. She’d never see him as a person, as a sensitive human being. He’d be reduced to this thing, this guy-thing. If she leaned half an inch closer to the right, he would die right there, on her front seat.

“When was the last time you had to do something like that?” he managed to ask.

West covered her repair job with his clip-on tie. The more she tried not to connect with his person, the clumsier her fingers got, fumbling, and touching. She nervously tried to put the stapler away, and dropped it.

“I use it for reports.” She groped under the seat. “Don’t think I’ve ever used it on someone’s shirt.” She slammed shut the glove box on the third try.

“No,” Brazil said, clearing his throat again. “I mean, what you did in there. That guy must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and you decked him. All by yourself.”

West shoved the car in gear. “You could,” she said. “All you need is training.”

“Maybe you . . . ?”

She held up a hand as if halting traffic. “No! I’m not a
goddamn one-person police academy!” She tapped the MDT. “Clear us outa here, partner.”

Brazil was tentative as he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He started typing. The system beeped as if it liked him. “God, this is so cool,” he said.

“Small minds,” West commented.

“Unit 700,” Radar, the dispatcher, said. “Missing person at five-fifty-six Midland.”

“Shit. Not again.” West grabbed the mike and tossed it to her partner. “Let’s see what they’re teaching volunteers these days.”

“700,” he said on the air for all to hear. “We’re ten-eighteen five-fifty-six Midland.”

Missing person reports were so much paperwork it was unbelievable. Such investigations were almost always fruitless, for either the person really wasn’t missing, or he was and dead. Radar’s preference was that West had gotten her butt kicked at Fat Man’s. At least Radar could ensure that she would be filling out forms the rest of her life, and Midland was government-subsidized housing, definitely not a nice place for a female or her reporter ride-along.

Luellen Wittiker lived in a one-bedroom unit. Her number, 556, like all others in Midland Court, was painted in huge numbers over the door. The city had done this free of charge so the cops could find places fast when out at night with searchlights sweeping and K-9 dogs panting. Luellen Wittiker had just moved here from Mint Hill, where she had worked as a checkout clerk in Wal-Mart until she hit her eighth month of pregnancy and got tired of Jerald coming around. How many times did she have to tell him
no
. N-O.

She paced, wringing her hands, her four-year-old daughter, Tangine, watching from the bed, which was close to the front door. Boxes were still stacked against a wall, although there were not many, since the Wittiker family traveled light. Luellen prayed every hour that Jerald would not find out
where she had moved. He would show up. Oh yes. She paced some more. Where the hell were the police? They think this was the lay-away plan? Can’t do it now, pick it up later?

Oh yes. He would find her. Because of that bad seed child of hers. Wheatie was out there right now, God only knew where, probably trying to find a way to get hold of Jerald, who was not Wheatie’s biological father, but his mother’s last boyfriend. Wheatie hero-worshiped Jerald, and that was the problem. Tangine watched her mother pacing. Tangine was eating a Popsicle. Jerald was nothing more than a lowlife drugman, who bought and sold the big stuff, and did it, too.

Cain, crack, diesel, smoke, all that shit. He walked around in his big warm-up suit and Filas like he was in the NBA, and had a diamond earring, too, and a 4×4, black with red and yellow detailing. He’d drive up, and Wheatie would start in, walking, bad-mouthing, cool-talking, just like Jerald. Next thing, Wheatie would start cussing Luellen and even slapping her around, or smoking marijuana. Just like Jerald. She heard feet on the steps and called out to make sure.

“Police,” a woman’s voice sounded.

Luellen worked a big cinder block back from the door and removed a concrete support steel bar that she had found on a construction site. She had the same set of improvised locks at the back door, too. Even if Jerald or his bad friends could get in, she’d at least hear things scraping and clanging and have time to get out her matte-black nine-millimeter Baretta Model 92FS pistol with its Tritium night sights, wood grips, and fifteen-shot magazine. The gun had come from Jerald as well, and it had been a big mistake giving her this hand-me-down. If he so much as knocked on her door, it would be his last gesture.

“Come on in,” Luellen said to the two police officers at the top of concrete steps.

Brazil’s eyes adjusted to the glaring illumination of a naked light bulb in a plastic Greek column lamp. A small TV was on, the Braves playing the Dodgers. There was a boom box in a corner, walls bare, the bed unmade and right there in
the living room, a little girl sitting on it. She had braids and sad eyes. It was hot as hell in here, and Brazil started sweating. So did West. She had attached an endless form on top of her metal clipboard, and was prepared to do a lot of writing. Luellen began by telling the police lady all about Wheatie, including that he was adopted and jealous as hell of Tangine and the unborn baby, yet unnamed.

“He called you after he missed the bus,” West repeated as she wrote.

“Wanted me to come get him, and I told him I had no way,” Luellen said. “Last time I was pregnant, he jumped on me and I lost the baby. He was fifteen then. Always been hateful because he’s adopted, like I told you. Trouble from day one.”

“You got a recent picture of him?” West asked.

“Packed up. Don’t know if I can get to it.”

Mother described Wheatie as small, bad skin, wearing Adidas, baggy jeans hanging off, teal-green Hornets tee shirt and baseball cap, and a fade haircut. He could be anywhere, but Luellen worried that he was running with bad kids and into drugs. Brazil felt sorry for Tangine, who seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things as she climbed down from the bed, fascinated by this blond man in his fancy uniform with all its shiny leather. He got out his Mag-Lite and started bouncing the beam around on the floor, playing with her like she was a cat. Tangine didn’t know what to make of this and got scared. She was screaming and did not intend to stop by the time the police left. Mother watched Brazil and West feel their way down the steps in the complete dark.

“Way to go,” West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.

Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.

“I’d put a light on if I had one,” Luellen said from the doorway.

The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms, having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to respect West’s rank. Were she paranoid,
she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got their backs as they typed and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have asserted herself but didn’t. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.

She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap. They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath streetlights, hateful eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie’s wretched life, his loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad examples and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.

Brazil’s early years weren’t perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always welcome to visit their small brick precinct and listen to their stories and gossip and exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal from students picking up laundry and tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M&M soda shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.

Wheatie had never experienced any of this and quite likely never would. At the very moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were three friends, all years older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns, and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high-fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow, hurtful spot in Wheatie’s heart was full and feeling fine.

“Give me a gun, I’ll go work for you,” he said to Slim.

“Little piece like you?” Slim laughed. “Uh uh.” He shook his head. “I give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone. “Nobody fuck with me.”

“Yeah, you bad,” said Tote.

“Yeah, you bad,” Fright imitated Tote, while popping Wheatie on the head.

“Man, I gotta go get me some food,” said Slim, who could eat tires after getting high. “How ’bout we hit Hardee’s.”

He meant this literally. Slim and company were under the influence and armed, and robbing Hardee’s was as good an idea as any they had come up with this night. All of them piled into his red Geo Tracker. They headed out with the radio so loud the bass could be felt five cars away. Wheatie plotted as they drove, thinking about Jerald and how proud he would be of Wheatie right now. Jerald would be impressed with Wheatie’s buddies. Wheatie wished Slim, Tote, and Fright could meet Jerald. Shit, wouldn’t they step back and give Wheatie a little more respect? Fuck yeah, they would. He watched telephone poles and cars go by, his heart picking up speed. He knew what he had to do.

“Give me a gun, I’ll do it,” he said loud enough to be heard over heavy metal.

Slim was driving and laughed again, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. “You will? You ever hit anything before?”

“I hit my mother.”

They all laughed.

“He
hit
his mother! Woooo-weeee! Bad ass!”

They were choking, guffawing, weaving in and out of traffic. Fright slipped out his high-gloss stainless steel Ruger .357 Blackhawk revolver with its six-and-a-half-inch barrel and walnut grips and adjustable sights. It was loaded with six Hydra-Shoks. He handed his piece to Wheatie, who acted as if he knew all there was to know about guns and owned plenty of them. They pulled up to Hardee’s. The friends landed glazed eyes on Wheatie.

“All right, motherfucker,” Slim said to him. “You go in and get a twelve-piece dinner, all white meat.” He snapped out a twenty-dollar bill. “You pay and wait. Don’t do nothing ’til you got the food, you know? Then you tuck it under your arm, pull out the gun, clean out the registers, and run like hell.”