Only the Strong (4 page)

“Guts.”

“Grimes.”

The detective, one of a handful of black investigators on the force, was on Goode's payroll. Guts had never seen any money change hands, but he knew it just the same. Whenever Guts got picked up on a humble or was just plain made to eat shit by redneck cops, Grimes always stepped in to loosen the cuffs. He could be counted on to look the other way while Guts carried out his boss's instructions, and—just as important—to induce his colleagues to do the same. On one memorable evening, Grimes had even teamed up with Guts to hide the body of the detective's own partner, a hotheaded little sadist who'd learned his limits under the heel of Guts's size 14 EEE.

In the two years since that night, neither man had ever mentioned it, and each respected the other's personal space.

“So who's dead back there?”

“You know,” Grimes said. He rested his gloved hands on the edge of Guts's window.

“Fish.”

“Throat slit, probably with his own pearl-handled razor.”

Guts sighed. “I just saw him this morning.”

“It gets worse,” Grimes said. “You don't want to look below his belt. The sight would make a grown man cry. Or else throw up.”

Guts shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You mean—?”

“Yep. His throat wasn't the only thing they slit.”

“Why would anybody want to do that to Fish?”

“Tried to get something out of him. Something worth more than what was in the cash register.”

“From Fish? Like what?”

“Information, most likely,” Grimes said.

“Anything missing?”

Grimes straightened up. “Nothing but the razor. He carried it everywhere, especially when getting ready to make his night deposit. Fish walked by faith but he was nobody's fool.”

Guts threw his car into drive. “Well, I hear anything I'll make sure you know. I don't envy you cleaning this up.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“I got the easy job tonight,” Grimes replied. “You got the hard one.”

“What's that?”

The detective almost smiled. “You have to tell Mr. G.”

The men of the Black Swan Sign Shop gathered near their front window. It was early Tuesday morning and the air above the intersection of Marcus and Easton was a combat zone of clashing scents: the death-funk of Royal Packing Company, where pigs were already being turned into pork chops, versus the smoky aroma rising from the chimney of Nat-Han Steakhouse, where steak and eggs were the stars of the morning menu. Next to Nat-Han, a line of hopeful drunks waited for the package liquor store to open for business. Directly across the street from the Black Swan, Guts chatted with Nifty Carmichael, a lean man who ran in place as he talked.

“My bet's for 10 minutes,” Bob Cobb offered. Cobb, the elder statesman of the Black Swan, puffed on a pipe as he donned his paint-spattered smock.

George West took a sip of his White Castle coffee and shook his head. The motion caused his big, bushy mustache to vibrate. “Naw, it's past that already,” he said. “Besides, 10 minutes ain't hard. Hell, I could get to the river from here in 10 minutes.”

Lucius Monday laughed as he hunched over a drafting table he'd fashioned from a discarded door. “Here we go,” he said.

West was undeterred. “You know I was the public high school mile champion back in the day.”

“How could we forget,” Cobb said. “Sumner High hasn't had a champion as beloved as you since then. They retired your uniform number and everything.”

“You mean I've told that story before?”

Even Talk Much, who usually wore the same inscrutable expression, managed a smile.

“You're a man of many talents,” said Reuben Jones, stirring a few drops of black into a large can of optic white. “Too bad lip reading isn't one of them.”

From where the men of the Black Swan stood, Guts looked as if he was asking about Nifty's health. But they knew he was doing nothing of the kind.

“My money's on a half-hour,” Reuben said.

“More like 15 minutes,” Lucius countered.

“Bet,” Reuben said. “Loser buys the beer when we knock off.”

“Let's make it Pepsi,” Lucius said. “I'm still on the wagon.”

“Deal.”

Four years back, Guts and Nifty had arrived at their peculiar agreement: Nifty had to run in place whenever he saw Guts. It didn't matter if Guts didn't notice him or was too far away to speak with him. As soon as Nifty got wind of Guts's presence, he had to get those knees pumping. If he ever failed to stay in motion, Guts would kill him. Once, in front of a crowd near Katz Drugs in Pine Lawn, Nifty had paused to scratch his ankle. Guts had hit him on the top of the head with his fist, like a hammer pounding a nail. Nifty had blinked and collapsed. Guts had quickly caught him and laid him gently on the ground. Then he borrowed a bottle of beer from an onlooker and poured it on Nifty, reviving him. Guts had helped him to his feet and Nifty had commenced running in place.

“I missed getting to see my lady,” Guts told Nifty. “And I missed hearing the Man in the Red Vest. You know what time he's on now?”

“Midnight to five,” Nifty answered between gasps. His stingy-brim hat had slid to the back of his head, revealing the beads of sweat forming in his close-cropped hair.

“That's right,” Guts agreed. “He still had a few hours of airtime left when I got home but I was too beat to turn it on. I was worn
out from listening to Mr. G. react to the bad news I brought him. But that's the small stuff. The worst part about yesterday was seeing a good man dead in the street. I'm sure you know who I'm talking about.”

“Fish,” Nifty said, breathing hard.

“So informal,” Guts said. “You must have known him well.”

Nifty shook his head.

“No? Then it seems you should show him more respect.”

“Rudolph Fisher,” Nifty said. “Mr. Rudolph Fisher.”

“That's better. Some folks deserve to die, Nifty. Some deserve to live. When somebody good dies, people get upset. When somebody who should be dead still walks around taking up space and breathing precious air, well, something doesn't seem right. It pisses me off. It almost pisses me off as much as a no-good piece of shit going around talking sideways at me. You know about that? Some piece of shit spitting nonsense about me going soft?”

“Naw, I ain't heard nothing like that.” Nifty's tongue was hanging out.

“Thing is, I can't imagine anybody being that stupid. Gateway City ain't but so big. Word is bound to get back to me.”

Nifty had begun the encounter with high-stepping strides. Now his feet were barely leaving the pavement, and his arms flapped weakly, as if he were a bird struggling against the wind.

“You know me, Guts. I keep an ear to the ground. I hear anything about anybody talking behind you, I'll let you know first thing.”

“You do that.”

Guts slapped Nifty lightly across the jaw. From across the street it looked like an affectionate gesture. “I know I can count on you. And if you hear anything about who got Fish, I should be the first person you tell.”

The men of the Black Swan watched as Guts got in his car and started the engine. Nifty dutifully jogged until the Plymouth pulled away from the curb and out of sight.

“Wait for it, wait for it…” Cobb said. “And…now!”

Across the street, Nifty doubled over and vomited into the gutter.

In unison, the sign painters groaned and turned away.

“Nasty sumbitch,” West declared.

“How long?” Lucius asked.

“Seventeen minutes exactly,” Cobb replied.

“Gotcha,” Lucius said.

“All right,” Reuben conceded. “Pepsi's on me. I saw Guts keep him going for almost an hour once. He let him off easy today.”

“Brother Tolliver, have you come to join us in prayer?”

Few people could ever get the draw on Guts, but somehow Reverend Miles Washington always managed to. The senior pastor of Good Samaritan Methodist Church favored the same kind of suits worn by his best friend, Ananias Goode. Dark, handsome, and apparently ageless, Rev. Washington had a scar running down the side of his neck that did no harm to his beauty. In fact, it accentuated his good looks the same way his pinstripes enhanced the luster of his lapels.

Guts had been lost in thought, tossing crumbs to the ducks from his perch on a bench next to the pond in Fairgrounds Park. He was going over his encounter with Nifty earlier that morning when the minister appeared at his side. To Guts's surprise, Rev. Washington wasn't alone.

“Guts Tolliver, have you met Dr. Noel?”

“I haven't had the pleasure,” Guts said, removing his hat and scrambling to his feet. “But I've seen your picture in the
Gateway Citizen
.”

“Hello,” Dr. Artinces Noel said, extending her hand. She was as small as Guts was large, maybe five feet tall. But she radiated enough dignity to outfit an entire regiment of six-footers. Next to her stood two ladies Guts recognized from his frequent sojourns in the park. Usually the two elderly women were clad in pedal pushers and straw gardening hats. This time their outfits were considerably more formal.

“And these are Mrs. Tichenor and Mrs. Means, co-founders of the Gateway City Horticultural Study Club,” Rev. Washington said. Guts shook both their hands.

“We know you,” Mrs. Tichenor said. “You feed the ducks almost every day.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's right,” Guts said. “You have a good memory.”

“I could never forget such a big, strong man.”

“Blanche,” said Mrs. Means. She was a good six inches taller than her friend. “No flirting, especially on such an important occasion.”

“And what occasion is that?” Guts asked.

Mrs. Means smiled. “Today we rededicate the Abram Higgins Memorial Garden. You do know who Abram Higgins was?”

“No ma'am, I don't. But I suppose I should?”

“Yes, of course, you should,” Mrs. Tichenor said. “Abram Higgins was a brilliant black man, an attorney.”

“A real leader of his people,” Mrs. Means interjected. “The hospital's named after him.”

“Of course,” Guts said. “Abram H.” Nearly everyone he knew referred to the North Side's only public hospital as Abram H.

“Rev. Washington is the volunteer chaplain there when he's not leading the flock at Good Samaritan,” said Mrs. Tichenor. “He has kindly agreed to say a prayer.”

“And Dr. Noel will also offer some remarks,” Rev. Washington added. “She was chief of pediatrics at the hospital for many years. If you have children, you've probably benefited from her trailblazing work in the field.”

The pediatrician stared directly into Guts's eyes. He felt, improbably, that he was looking up at her rather than the other way around. “Have you any children, Mr. Tolliver?” she asked.

“No ma'am, I don't.”

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Tichenor, “now that's a shame.”

Rev. Washington cleared his throat. “Ladies, we really must get going,” he said.

Guts bowed and stood with hat in hand until they went off. He saw that a humble tent had been erected at the memorial garden, with folding chairs and a podium. A small audience was gathering as a pair of photographers hovered. Guts marveled at the pinstriped pastor's cool demeanor. His unlined face had shown no sign that one of his oldest friends had been murdered in cold blood the night before.

In contrast, when Ananias Goode had heard the news, he slammed his fist on the table so hard that his glass, half-filled with
bourbon, wobbled and nearly fell. He stood in his living room, having just risen from an immense, throne-like chair. Guts stood a few feet away, hat in hand. Lawrence, the live-in nurse, sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

“Easy, Mr. G.,” Lawrence said.

“I'm all right,” Goode responded, his jowls quivering.

“No disrespect, but it ain't you I'm worried about.” Lawrence nodded toward a closed door. “Any little disturbance—”

Burly as a linebacker, with muscles rippling beneath his hospital garb, Lawrence smiled despite the gravity of the occasion. His apparent lack of interest in the female sex, along with the rarity of male nurses, had always fueled speculation about his private life. But his obvious strength and skill with his fists kept the gossip at a low volume.

Goode had no problem with Lawrence, having trusted him enough to put him through nursing school. Since graduation he had served faithfully as nurse and protector to Mrs. Goode, who slept in the next room as still as death.

“Fish and I were boys together,” Goode said. “We weren't close like Miles and me, but we got along. Miles and me were thick as thieves, just like now.”