Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (17 page)

Both, I'm told, have become quite expert at preparing Banana Surprise.

It's not every day I kill someone. I am a nonviolent being. I walk the path of peace unless, of course, you fuck with me. I tried to explain this to the guy who threw me up against the wall. I said, no, actually I pleaded, “Look, you don't want to jack me up, I don't have any money. I never carry a purse.”

He laughed, the ring of ignorance chiming in the air. “Bitch. I don't care if you've got money. It ain't money I'm after.”

I squinted in the moonlight. He had a scarf over his mouth like I couldn't recognize those murderous crystal-glass looking eyes again. He held his hand over my mouth, struggling with his belt. I knew he wasn't going to rape me—and live.

He didn't know it though. I could see he thought he was going to kill me when his scarf slid off. His mind focused on the task at hand, as spittle curdled in the corners of his mouth. He thought he was going to get some too. It hadn't entered his pin-sized mind the possibility I wouldn't let him. He snatched my skirt up. Fumbled around like a seeing man searching for his glasses on a bedside table at night. I squeezed my thighs tighter. He stopped fumbling. Switched out a glinting blade with his left hand, held it to my neck, the elbow of his right arm cutting off my wind.

“Move an inch, Bitch, and I will slit your throat.”

I did not move. I smiled.

“What the fuck?” He backed up. Moved his elbow to swiftly grab my neck.

Two
A
.
M
. is not an unusual time for my phone to ring. And it isn't odd that I answer it either. I'm a detective. Old school, flat-footed from walking a beat, suits that don't fit worth a damn, and a hard-on when I wake up 'cause ain't nobody sleeping with me.

“Detective Medearis here,” I said. “What? Who? Yeah, I'm on it. Give me ten.”

I rolled out of bed. My Glock dropped to the floor, hit my toe. “Shit.” I'm hopping now. Washing the toilet seat in the dark. Throwing water on my face; that's so I can wake up enough to not scald myself in the defective shower. For some reason I cannot remember, right is hot, left is cold.

When I arrive at the scene, the police lights got the joint looking like daylight, yellow tape flapping in the wind. This is a warehouse district. Not much to see or do. I drop down at the spot, since the FOS has told me he ain't seen nothing like it. This guy's been a cop in New fucking York. He's right. This is a new one for me too. Somebody has cut this guy a vagina. Whew, it stinks to high holy heaven.

I stood up, “Got this on tape folks?”

Spenser, the guy I'm grooming to take over the world, said, “Yep, right here, video live.”

He's young, new to the force. Doing pretty good, so far haven't seen him lose his lunch once.

Joey, a homophobic idiot, said, “I think he's a heshe?”

“There's no such thing as a heshe, dumbass. They don't like being called that. Damn,” Spenser said. “Besides I got his rap here. Last I knew he was your average pervert. Too many prior rapes to count.”

“Any witnesses, Cowboy?” I called Spenser Cowboy because he insists on wearing alligator boots with metal tips on the end. We're in Atlanta not Texas.

“Yes, over there, leaning against the fancy ride.”

I turned around. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. Long hair, shapely breasts, legs that even a brick house couldn't do justice. A package alright. But what was she doing out here?

“Hello, Miss.”

“Hello. I'm sort of in a hurry. So could we rush this?”

I stared at her. She had hardly any makeup on. I should know since both my sisters drove pink cars for years. One year they had a Mary Kay Christmas tree. You don't see this kind of looker every day.

“Miss, Miss . . . what is your name?”

“Dr. H. Winston,” she said, holding out her hand.

I shook it. Not half as soft as I'd expect them to be. A little weird feeling. Maybe she's sweating.

“Dr. Winston, could you tell me what you saw? First, though, what were you doing out here?” Cold though, as a chunk of ice.

“I own these buildings. I stopped by to pick up something in that building over there. I came out because I heard someone screaming. I saw a woman running that way.” She pointed toward the street lamp at the corner. “I spotted something over there on the ground. I wasn't sure what it was, but I called 911.” She shrugged.

I watched her. Not shaken, no trembling fingers, nail polish bright red to match lipstick. Neat as a freaking Five Star General. And something about her looked familiar.

“Have we met before?” I asked her.

“I don't think so,” she said, smiling. “I haven't been here that long.”

“Did you see what the woman looked like? What she was wearing? Anything?”

“No. It's dark.”

“Then how did you know it was a woman? Maybe it was just a man dressed up like a woman to disguise himself?”

“I assumed it was a woman because of the screams. It sounded like a woman, that's all. When I saw her, it looked like a woman too.”

“What was she wearing?”

“A dress, skirt and top, not sure which, high heeled shoes, long hair, flowing down her back.”

“That sort of fits your description.”

“I suppose so.”

“Were her heels as tall as yours? They're pretty steep.” She had on what my grandmother called hooker shoes, thin tall heels, gravel stuck to the bottom, with ankle straps wrapped around two or three times. Hookers wore them, but so did other women. Today women and hookers are hard to tell apart if you're going just by clothes. Makes it hard on the vice boys. “Are you alright?” I asked, just to see what she'd say.

“Yes, is the man alright?” she asked.

“What makes you think it's a man? Did you walk over there?”

“No, the officer who questioned me told me that it was a man. Is he alright?”

“No. He's dead,” I said, watching her face for reaction. None. Nada. I couldn't explain why I didn't like her. She was the most beautiful woman I'd remembered seeing since Pam Grier. It was something about her. I checked her shoes and panty hose for rips or stains. The heels looked worn, but even perfect people can't control poor shoe manufacturers. Spotless, flawless, too perfect, everything in order. Maybe somebody shanked this guy for her. Maybe she paid. Then why stick around and call? Maybe I just know she's out of my league and I don't stand a chance sleeping with her. Uh-huh.

“You come here often this late at night?” I could hear the suspicious quiver in my voice. Damn, she unnerved me.

“No. I'm leaving for a business trip tomorrow. I had important papers I needed to pick up.”

“May I see them?”

“Sure,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “If you must.” She reached inside the Mercedes, pulled papers from an open briefcase. “I'm not sure what this has to do with what I saw. But why not.”

I recognized rows in the briefcase under the thin sheets that covered them. Rows of cards? What makes that indentation? What the hell. I checked the papers. I had no clue what they were, some kind of graphs. “What is this?” I asked her.

“Science. I'm a scientist.”

“Oh,” I handed them back to her. Didn't bother explaining. I flunked science, and I mean general science. “Do you have a card or something so
we can get in touch with you?” Smooth. Real smooth. I grimaced at my own awkwardness.

“I gave the other officer all the information,” she said. “May I go now?”

I took a deep breath. Truth was I didn't want her to go. Strong women I couldn't trust intrigued me. “Here's my card. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

She turned the card over in her fingers like a practiced magician. I expected my card to disappear.

“I will do that. By the way,” she said, opening her car door and climbing in. “Did that woman kill that man in self-defense?”

By the way? Cool, too cool. “That's what we've got to find out.”

She caressed the steering wheel, her car door slightly open. Card still balanced expertly between her delicate fingers. She glanced at the card, looked up at me. “Detective Medearis? Are you Hispanic?”

My knees quivered. Her eyes were like black pearls. Her skin Tootsie-Roll dark. My favorite candy—had two in my pocket. “Nope. African-American, Black, Negro, Colored are only a few of the names I've been called.” You forgot a name—asshole.

“Good. I like my own kind,” she said smiling. She turned the key in the ignition. “Call me,” she said in a seductive whisper.

I might as well have screwed her right there. That's how hard I was, sweat dripping, knees weak, felt like I might have actually wet my underwear too. Damn, I wouldn't call her. She was trouble. I was single now and liked it that way. Maybe not the waking up alone part, but everything else worked in my favor. Women, can't live with 'em; catch hell if you marry 'em.

“Detective Medearis, did you hear me?”

“Sorry. No, Spenser, what did you say?” I kept looking at the fumes from the Mercedes pipes. A diesel. You hardly saw a woman driving a Mercedes diesel anymore.

“We have a problem.”

“Other than a dead man with a hole cut in his body shaped like a vagina?”

“Yep. There's another dead man in the Dumpster.”

“What? You got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Come see.”

I followed him to the Dumpster. The guys had left the top open. Everybody was working the scene by now. ID folk snapping photos the old-fashioned way. I stared into the Dumpster. I could see the drug paraphernalia. This was bad. Real bad. I knew the body. Or, let's say I knew who the man was, and I also knew heat would be on this like an iron poke at a cow branding. Shit, shit, shit. And I thought I was going on vacation.

“Get me the TOD on both these guys. Make sure nobody fucks up the evidence either. This will be tight.” I shook my head. When somebody whacks the son of a prominent doctor in town, even if he is low-life-scum-of-the-earth-drug dealer, everybody is under the gun.

I walked back to my snazzy new sports car. Yeah, in my dreams, for now the Green Hawk would do, a 1999 Chevy issue. I hated this chubby car. I was just happy I didn't have to hop in it when Miss Sleek Mercedes Benz pulled off. I still needed to check out her story. Or, did I just want to find a reason to give her a call?

The next day I had to call. It seems that the two guys died within minutes of each other. And according to the ME some time lapsed maybe between the time Dr. Winston should have seen at least one of them and the time she phoned the police.

Maybe she also saw something she forgot. Like how handsome I was. Funny.
Handsome
wasn't one of the names I'd been called lately. Women said I was cute. You have to work hard to get the pussy if you're just cute. Handsome though, legs pop wide open for you. Check out men who have sexual harassment suits against them. Guaranteed, ugly ass men mostly.

Look at Spenser, young hotshot cop, hair thick as a Persian rug. Women at the precinct got drool coming out of their mouths and maybe other places when he walks by. It's never been like that for me. When it came to women, I didn't have it. You know that lockbox Gore was talking about. Well the women I know use that box. All except my ex-wife—for a hot minute, she let me have a key. Then just ripped it back out of my hands.

The captain yelled, “Detective Medearis, I need to see you in my office.”

I looked around. Hell, I am not even five steps away from her office. I walked inside. “Do you have to scream at me like that? Damn, I thought that was over two years ago.”

“Funny. Did you read this?”

I picked up the newspaper. Freddie Lowenstein Jr. was a yada, yada, MIT graduate. Yada, yada, yada. “Okay, so they forgot he graduated from three DWI schools, a drug program, and still he was smart enough to make drug salesman of the year.”

“You should go on TV. Get your own comedy show like that Bernie Mac or Cedric the Entertainer. Now what do you have on Freddie Lowenstein's case? Get something before I got folk downtown on my butt.”

“I used to be on it,” I said, smiling.

“Can you get serious and stay focused? Oh wait; you can't do that. That's why you're
not
on my butt anymore. Now cut it out.”

Carol Jordan was my wife, before she became my captain. She was way too bossy even then. I loved her though. I mean I dug this woman. But she dropped me like a pot of hot grits the minute somebody told her I was sleeping around. You would think a smart detective would have at least gotten the evidence before firing my ass. But she “couldn't handle the uncertainty of my life.” What uncertainty. Hell, we did the same exact job. I have no idea why women always think they are more trustworthy than men. All you have to do is check the record, and you see it ain't so.