Whenever I thought of my alcoholism, I saw my life in two acts. My life as an alcoholic was Act One and it was behind me. That was then. Act Two was now. I was sober now, one day at a time. I refused to let my past define me. Would I have done anything different if I could? I didn't know. My sponsor, Joyce, said our alcoholism can be a blessing if we turn our lives around and use it to help others. I didn't know about all that.
Now, fortunately, I was clean again, making a living. Wasn't I a free agent? The LAPD didn't sign my paycheck anymore. Internal Affairs didn't own me. A quiet voice spoke to me.
You are your own woman. You're self-employed. You can help your brother.
Suddenly I recognized an emotion I was feeling. I was POed: pissed off. Red-hot rage pissed. I was furious that I couldn't go to the police for help. I was furious that these two jackasses didn't care what happened to my brother. I was furious that my brother was only considered a convict and not a human being. Maybe he didn't mean anything to themâto the world he was just another black man, dispensable. But, to me, he was my brother. They broke the mold when they made Mayhem.
He was the first male I'd followed around when I learned to walk. He was the one who taught me how to shoot a gun, and how to be as tough as a man. I remembered when we were kids, he'd said, “I'm going to teach you to shoot so you can take care of yourself so that no man can fuck over you like they do Mama.” The truth of the matter was that there was only one man, Strange, our younger two siblings' father, who ever walked over my mother without her going to royal battle with him.
A couple of years ago, Venita had been released from prison after serving a twenty-year bid, so we were definitely not the Huxtables from
The Cosby Show.
My three siblings and I were raised in four different foster homes, except for Mayhem, who ran away and was on his own from the age of ten. I guessed that's why he was in the trouble he was in today.
I thought about my mother and how upset she was over the possible pending murder of her oldest son, her first born. She'd already lost her youngest two children. Up until this day, we didn't even know where my younger brother, Diggity, and my baby sister, Righteousness, were living, or if they were alive at all. We'd all spread to the four winds, it seemed. The younger two sibs seemed to have vanished into thin air. I was just trying to get my life together, and had two years of sobriety under my belt. I'd just started a search for my younger two sibs on the national registry, but no luck so far.
Something hit me. I realized I was alone in this world. Mayhem was all I had of my siblings and I didn't want to lose him. I didn't have to answer to a job, so I was free. I decided then and there I would return the money on the missing starlet to the family and handle my own family's business. But how?
Chapter Four
I didn't breathe easily until the two alleged federal officers dropped me back in front of the Kodak Theater near Hollywood Boulevard, hours later. I could see the crowds had cleared. Only a few stragglers remained in the area. The after parties were probably already in full swing. For some reason, it didn't bother me though. My mood was ruined after this night I'd had. Anyhow, I didn't feel like being around all the beautiful people right now. I didn't feel like watching Haviland act like a flibbertigibbet the way she did whenever she was in her element surrounded by other actors.
No, I just wanted to be alone. I had to process what had just happened. Who were these men? What did they want with my brother? What was this dad-blain money they were talking about? Was that the motive for kidnapping Mayhem?
A light mist began to fall softly, although it wasn't exactly raining. L.A. was funny like that. My old bullet hole, where either one of the two undercover copsâFlag, my ex, or Anderson, his partner-in-crimeâhad shot me always told the truth. Or, maybe I should say, my old wound never lied. It was going to rain sometime soon. That I knew for sure. If not tonight, by tomorrow for sure. My old wound was like an internal weather barometer.
At a loss as to what to do, I tottered over to Melrose Boulevard, ignoring how my feet hurt in the Prada heels I was wearing. I stopped before I reached Melrose, and slipped off my heels. I could feel the runs beginning up my light pantyhose as the sidewalk grated against my feet.
I started to call Romero but changed my mind. He probably was caught up on his own case. He'd been tagging a methamphetamine lab for some time now and he must have gotten a break in the case.
Finally I flagged down a cab. I decided I would go home to my garage apartment at my foster mother Shirley's and try to get some sleep. As I climbed into the cab, I turned on my phone and I saw I'd missed a lot of calls. I listened to my voice mail. The first call was from Venita. “We need you, Z. Please help us.”
Several hysterical calls were from both Chica and Haviland. “Where are you?” they both screamed frantically into my message center. I decided not to return their calls at this moment. I didn't feel like being interrogated by them right now. Anyway, who did they think they were? My mama or something? Even my foster mother, Shirley, or my biological mother, Venita, didn't try to keep tabs on me.
I could only conjecture that things were crazy when Chica and Haviland realized I was missing from the Academy Awards ceremony. Absently, I told the cabbie where to transport me, which was home.
Before I could return my friends' calls, my phone rang, its Beyoncé song “Run the World (Girls)” ringtone startling me. I pushed answer and instantly a Skype picture of Mayhem appeared on my screen. I looked down and saw that this was Skype and was not a video. I gasped. I didn't know what to say. His eyes were swollen shut and blackened, but he was holding his head high.
“Hey, sis.”
“Mayhem?” I didn't know what to say. “Are you okay?”
“For now. I need your help, sis.”
“Iâ”
“I got caught slippin'. Go see Tank.”
“Who's Tank?”
“My lieutenant. You've met him before. The big dude. He'll know what to do.”
“Where is he?”
“Call Venita and get the number for him and set up a meeting.”
“Why me, Mayhem?”
“You are trained. I'm counting on you, Z. You can do this.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get the boys outta here.”
My ears shot up.
“What boys?”
I thought he was talking about his muscle or his henchmen.
“My sons. They just kids,” Mayhem said. “You've got to help me save my boys.” He paused before continuing. “If they don't get this money they'll kill them too.”
“Where is their mother?”
“They have their mama, my wifey, in Rio as a hostage.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Sis, I'm going to need you to go to Brazil.”
“What?” I almost screamed in the phone. He might as well have said he needed me to go to the moon. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “What's going on?
“I need you to go to get my wifey, Appolonia. Then the money can be released.”
“What money? You're the third person who's mentioned this money.”
“Just do it, bitch, if you want to see your brother alive again,” an electronic squawk box voice interrupted, and Mayhem was cut off. The voice had sounded like a robot.
I didn't see the person on the screen but another threatening voice with the same electronic sound bellowed in the background, “The next time you see your brother it's going to be real bad. Tell your mother to get out her black dress if you don't get that money.”
The line went dead. I tried to push redial but the number was unreachable.
For a moment I was too numb to move. Once I gathered my wits about me, again, I made sure my phone line was on, if the kidnappers decided to call back. I was so upset I needed to get my bearings.
Now Mayhem had said to call Venita, but I didn't want to call her. I was still mad at her for spending half my childhood in prison for a crime she didn't commit. I was not on exactly the best speaking terms with her, but then something occurred to me. Who else could I call? Mayhem asked that I call Venita. Our mother. She's the only person who would have Tank's contact information.
“Venita, it's Z.”
My mother's voice sounded sleep filled, but I heard the alertness when she realized it was me. “Z?”
“I need Tank's phone number. Mayhem told me you would have it.”
My mother was happy to hear from me, since I'd shut down my phone on her during our last contact via text. We didn't exactly have a close mother-daughter relationship, you might say. “I have his address too. He's in Imperial Courts.”
I wrote down the phone number and address, then hung up. I could tell Venita was happy that I was on board. She didn't seem to realize something. Not only was he her first born, he was also my big brother. I wasn't doing this for her. I was doing this for Mayhem. Because when everything was all said and done, I remembered one thing: Mayhem killed for me when I was a child. The sad thing was, at the time, he was a child too. I was only nine and he was ten when the thing that destroyed our family happened. But I often wondered, what would have happened to me had he not pulled that trigger and killed Strange? I now wonder, where would I have wound up? Would my mother's then boyfriend, Strange, had molested me, the same way Chica's mother's boyfriend molested her throughout her early years before she was placed in foster care?
I thought about calling Romero, but changed my mind. After all, he was the law. Plus, he probably was out on his own surveillance case. We had an agreement never to interrupt each other when we were working.
Instead, I called my foster mother, Shirley, who had been the linchpin to love in my childhood and my adult life. The way safety pins used to hold old-fashioned cloth diapers together on babies, she'd held my life together when I was a nine-year-old child, traumatized from witnessing my father's murder, my mother's imprisonment, and the subsequent breakdown of our family system.
Two years ago, once again, Shirley had pulled my life together when I was a disgraced fired police officer, adult alcoholic, drowning in my own stew of demons. When I hit rock bottom, it was Shirley who climbed down in the cesspool of alcohol I was literally drowning in. She'd helped cleaned me up from my own vomit, sat through my detox, and got me into rehab until I could stand on my own two feet again. Up until then, I'd always thought I was so strong, but I found out I wasn't.
Sometimes when we can't pull things together or handle things, someone else has to hold our hand until we can handle them.
As soon as Shirley answered the phone, I felt a sense of comfort just hearing the sound of her voice. Unfortunately, just as I started my spiel, I realized I was talking to her voice mail. Dag-gonitt.
Anyhow what can she do?
I asked myself inwardly. I didn't know, but I knew one thing for sure. Shirley was always the one to dust me off, and make me think I could make it.
That's why I needed to see her now. If anyone could make sense of this craziness, it would be Shirley.
I left a short, cryptic message. “Moochie, I can't talk on the phone about this. When I get home, can I come to talk to you? I know it's late, but I need to talk to you. It's urgent.”
I always called Shirley by her nickname, Moochie, when I needed something.
Chapter Five
Just as I pulled up in front of Shirley's house, the rain had already stopped. It was just one of those capricious early spring showers that can hit L.A. one minute and disappear the next. The first thing I noticed was a black-and-white LAPD patrol car parked in the driveway, and, perhaps because I was already tense, I panicked. My antenna of “something bad is going on” rose up too high on my stress barometer and I could feel my hair standing at attention on my neck. My stomach knotted up. Was someone sick? Were Chica's girls okay? Lord, we couldn't take another hit emotionally since we'd lost Trayvon. I hated how I never relaxed anymore. I never took it for granted anymore that harm would never come to my loved ones anymore since Trayvon's death.
So why were the police at Shirley's at one in the morning? Something wasn't right. Baldwin Hills, one of the best-kept neighborhoods in L.A., was generally a quiet neighborhood, but this morning something was awry. The overhung streetlight was the only light on the street. From on top of the hill, I could still see the lights from the hill all over the L.A. Basin, but I felt like I was entering the Twilight Zone. Nothing seemed normal anymore.
“What's going on?” I asked, rushing up on Shirley, my heart galloping.
“He ran away.”
“Who?”
“Daddy Chill. He's a wanderer risk now.”
“I thought you said he'd plateaued,” I said, uselessly, almost like an accusation. Just last week, on the phone, Shirley was bragging on how well Daddy Chill was doing.
“It's one step forward, two back. I found him missing from his room this afternoon. I just turned my back and he was gone.”
“What?”
Shirley absently shook her head. She looked beyond disgusted. “They just found him about an hour ago. I don't know how much longer I can take this.”
The two officers, one white and one black, were escorting my foster father, Daddy Chill, into the house. He had a “little boy lost” look on his face, one that was a bit befuddled, as he shambled his way into the front door. A sense of sadness swept over me, thinking of what a big, strapping man he used to be when he worked for the Post Office. Now he'd lost so much weight, he was so gaunt, so haggard, he was only a shell of the man he used to be. He was the one who had taught me to listen to my guts, which have really served me well as a private investigator.
“Hey, Z,” Daddy Chill said sheepishly. He had a look on his face like a little boy who got caught stealing cookies out of the cookie jar.
“Hey, Daddy Chill.” I reached over and hugged him. I could almost feel his bones through his shirt and it nearly broke my heart. He used to be a buff, muscular man. Now, combined with his gauntness, he felt like he was freezing cold. That's when I realized he didn't have on a jacket, and the night air in L.A., and the recent rain, could get deadly. A chill ran through me. He could've have frozen to death, out there, lost, and not knowing where he was.
“What happened?” I directed my question to Shirley.
Shirley's face was lined with worry and fatigue in a way I had never noticed before. With the melanin in her skin, she'd seemed ageless in the twenty-six years I'd known her. Now she looked even older than her sixty-one years.
“He got lost this afternoon. I've been driving around all over looking for him. I was supposed to wait for twenty-four hours to put in a missing person's report, so I wasn't able to get it in.”
“Where was he?” I asked, following her into the house
“They just found him wandering in Culver City. He was wearing his I.D. bracelet, and that's the only way they knew how to get him back to me.”
Oh, my God.
So he'd been missing over half a day. His dementia had definitely gotten worse.
Shirley looked so distraught as she was pacing the floor. I could tell she was fit to be tied. “Oh, this man is giving me the blues.” She wrung her hands as she led him into his bedroom.
After the two officers took the report and left, I waited in the living room until Shirley medicated Daddy Chill, so we could talk.
“Hi, Auntie Z.”
I glanced up and saw Chica's oldest daughter, Malibu, wander into the room. She reached up and hugged me. She was rubbing her eyes.
“Did Papa Chill get back yet?” she asked groggily, her pimpled face wrinkled from a blanket of sleep and from an ongoing anxiety, which made her seem far older than her years. I hadn't seen her in a couple of weeks, since I'd been crashing at Romero's lately, and she'd blossomed over night. At thirteen, she could pass for twenty. She had at least blossomed from a B cup to a C cup in the past month, and it was scaryâwhat with all these sexual predators out there. I was glad she was with Shirley, who really kept tight reins on Chica and me when we were teens, but I didn't know about now. Shirley seemed so drained from taking care of Daddy Chill, I wondered how she could take care of four budding girls, one of whom was already a hottie.
“Yes, he's back. The police found him.”
“What's wrong with him? He doesn't act like himself.”
“He has dementia, baby,” Shirley said, returning to the room.
“We hope he gets better.” Nine-year-old Soledad had joined her big sister. Her eyes were alert, as if she'd never gone to sleep.
Shirley shook her head. She was generally the optimist, but I guessed she was being the realist. “His disease is progressive.”
“What does that mean?”
“It's not going to get better.” Hervoice sounded flat and blunt.
Both girls opened their mouths into round Os and started crying in big gulps. Shirley reached out and hugged them. “Oh, calm down, girls. I'm sorry I said it like that. Everything is going to be all right.”
“Is Papa Chill going to die like Trayvon did?” Soledad asked between sniffing and huffing.
“No, I'm just tired, girls. He can live a long time with the disease. Don't worry. He will be all right.”
“Shirley, where are Charisma and Brooklyn?” Those were Chica's younger two daughters who were respectively eight and six.
“They went to spend the night with Chica while I looked for Chill.” Chica kept the girls every other weekend now that she'd been clean and sober.
Shirley went to comfort the girls and put them back to bed. I sat in the living room, alone with my doubts and my fears.
What should I do?
Why did I have to get involved? And, if I did, would I be able to help my brother? Wouldn't this be dangerous? This case was too big for me.
I leaned my head back against the wing-back chair and absently looked around the room. I was comforted by the same antique Victorian sofa sitting in the same corner. The familiar fragrance of potpourri sitting in a vase filled my nostrils. I felt comforted when I gazed at my high school cap and gown graduation picture, which was placed next to Chica's high school graduation picture on the fireplace mantel.
This made me feel like I had a point of reference. Some shared history. Home. This was home for meâthe former foster kid. People didn't understand how much that meant to me. There were no pictures of my childhood before I stayed with Shirley. I only had one picture of me as a baby with my father that my mother had salvaged while she was on lockdown. To this day, I still often perused Shirley's many photo albums, which captured pictures of our childhood vacations, the teenaged guerilla theater, or beauty contests Chica and I had participated in, and both junior high and high school graduation.
Finally Shirley came out of the bedroom. “How are the girls doing?” I asked.
“They're in counseling. They still haven't gotten over Trayvon. I don't think I'll ever get over him either.” Shirley shook her head, her face growing drawn and pinched. Her eyes still carried a wounded look, over a year after Trayvon's murder. He'd been her pet of all the foster grandchildren.
“Yes, we all miss him.” Chica's son had really been a good kid. Being the only boy, his four surviving sisters still missed him.
“How was the Academy Awards? That dress is beautiful. You look stunning!” Shirley said, as if she was just noticing for the first time that I was wearing after-five apparel.
“It was different. But two Feds pulled me out and I didn't get to stay for the awards ceremony or the after parties.”
A look of alarm crossed Shirley's face and her tone changed. “You left a message that you needed to talk. What's the matter?”
I told her my dilemma. I finished spilling out my story, filled with doubts and recriminations that I hadn't reacted sooner. I waited for her to say something.“Shirley, what should I do?”
Shirley reached out and took my hand. She held it to my chest. She was silent for what seemed like the longest time, but was probably only seconds. “Do you hear your heartbeat?”
I nodded.
“There's no one else's in the world like yours. Just listen to it ... In your silent moments you'll know what to do. Follow your heart, baby.”
“I want to, but ...” I faltered.
“But what?”
“I'm scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“I guess I might as well tell you. I'm scared if I stick my neck out, I might get hurt. These people don't play.”
“We all have to help people. What kind of world would this be if no one ever helped one another?”
I thought of all the children Shirley had helped, including me. Where would I be if she hadn't taken me in as a foster child when I was young? “I'm afraid, though. I don't know what I might find.”
“Okay, what would you feel if you don't at least try to help?”
I thought about it for a minute. I reluctantly had to admit something. “I guess I'd feel awful. My brother said his sons are not even safe and he wants me to help get them somewhere safe.”
“Just remain true to yourself. I can't promise you that it will work out, but it will work better for you if you do what is in you to do.”
“I wish it were that simple. This thing could be dangerous. We're talking Crips, cartels, Feds. I don't know what's going on.”
Shirley closed her eyes and prayed out loud a prayer she knew word-for-word by heart.
In the Lord, put I my trust. How say ye to my soul. Flee as a bird to your mountain? For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart. If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do? The Lord is in his temple, the Lord's throne is in heaven; his eyes behold, his eyelids try, the children of men. The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.
Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest; this shall be the portion of their cup. For the righteous Lord loveth righteousness; his countenance doth behold the upright.
“That's beautiful! What prayer is that, Moochie ?”
“Psalm 11. This will help you triumph over adversity.”
“I don't know,” I said, still not certain prayer could help in this case.
Shirley stood up. “Think of David and Goliath. Go with God.” Shirley hugged me. “I love you, Z.”
“Love you too, Moochie.”
I hugged her back and got up to leave. I barreled inside my garage apartment and threw on a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and jacket. I packed my piece on my shoulder strap. I always felt safer on the streets with my pearl-handled Glock. I fed my ferret, Ben, and let him out his cage so he could be free to roam my studio apartment. I didn't know how long this day was going to be. After our postprandial lovemaking session, I'd taken a long nap the afternoon before at Romero's so that helped. I called Romero to tell him I wasn't coming to spend the night at his place after all, and it went to his voice mail. I left a brief message.
My thoughts turned back to my brother. I didn't even have any childhood pictures of us together. Now I only had the image of Mayhem on my phone screen, eyes blackened and swollen. My eyes watered, but I bit my lip to keep from crying. Was I my brother's keeper? I guessed I was.
I tried to call the number Venita had given me for Tank, but I didn't get an answer. There was no voice mail system set up, and I wouldn't have left a message anyhow. I hung up, clearly shaken, but an invisible hand pushed me forward. It was four in the morning when I headed to Imperial Courts. It looked like it was going to be a long night.