Untitled (15 page)

  "Which one is better?" she asked into his ear.

  "More food," he said. She hit him playfully.

  The phone rang, and Danny's head turned. Vinny missed with the spoon and the mashed potatoes smeared on his cheek. She licked it off. The phone rang again and he heard the machine pick it up. The voice of the caller was lost in the moans of the couple as Danny continued to make love and eat his dinner.

  Vinny's back straightened, and she gripped Danny's shoulders tightly. Soon after, Danny was yelling, and holding Vinny close to him, kissing her all over.

  Later, they sat and watched TV together. Vinny was in a robe, reading a criminal procedure book. Danny watched a rerun of
Cheers
.

  "You really into that shit, huh?"

  "I want to be a lawyer one day," said Vinny. "Can't run the street forever."

  "I lose more friends to law school," said Danny.

  "Speaking of Marshall, I heard on the news that he has a suspect in the Douglas assassination."

  "Who?" said Danny, suddenly uninterested in TV.

  "Mbutu. He stood in front of the Federal Building and all but confessed to it."

  "No shit," said Danny. "That fuckin' Mbutu ain't nothing but trouble, anyway. Still pushin' that tired-ass, black power shit, gettin' all them poor people excited, then taking their money
and
their hope. I hope Marsh hangs his black ass."

  Vinny laughed.

  "What?" asked Danny.

  "You sound just like my Uncle Charles."

  "I come by it naturally, woman. Paid my dues in the 'hood, you know."

  "You won't let me forget."

  The difference in their races had never been a problem for them. Vinny sort of looked at Danny as a black man who didn't have black skin. And that's how he handled himself. Some black officers didn't like it. They thought that Danny was mocking them.

  Blacks were funny about race. It was a burden, but also a prize. The manner, the cadence of voice, the undefinable quality of black brotherhood, was a treasure not to be shared by those who didn't carry the burden of it as well.

  Danny ignored those who disliked him for what he was. His history was all he had, and it just happened to be in an all-black neighborhood. It was his birthright, and he was not about to disown it.

  Danny noticed the answering machine light flashing. "Let's see who called during my dinner," he said, smiling at Vinny. He walked over to it and pushed the button.

  "Hello . . . ," said a man's voice.

  Marshall, Danny thought. Probably calling him to talk about the case.

  ". . . bet you never thought you'd hear my voice again. It's Moses Jackson."

  "I'll be fucked," said Danny. "Vinny! Come here." Danny stopped the message.

  Vinny got up and walked across the room. "What? Something wrong?"

  "Remember I told you Marshall had a twin brother, a lowlife?"

  "Yeah," said Vinny. "I always found that hard to believe, as straight as Marshall is."

  "Well, this is him on the machine."

  Danny hit the button on the machine again.

  "Hello, bet you never thought you'd hear my voice again. It's Moses Jackson. Marshall's long-lost twin brother. You're probably wondering why I'm calling you. Well, my brother won't return my calls. I had to call in a few favors, but I got your number from some nice men here at the county jail. Anyway, Marshall is too large for his poor relations these days. I've been trying to talk to him, and let him know that I have the key to that case he's prosecuting. I will only tell it to him. I know you and him are tight and all—"

  In the background a voice said, "Time's up."

  To the voice Moses said, "All right, dammit. I'm almost done." Then into the phone: "Tell Marshall that if he wants to solve this case, to come and get me. Get me out of this fuckin' jail. He can call me here."

  The message ended.

  Danny looked at Vinny, then walked by her.

  "Do you think he's for real?"

  "I don't know," said Danny. "But I'll find out."

  Danny picked up the phone and called the county jail. Moses was bad news. Danny remembered how Moses had teased him and fought with him when they were younger. Moses had always been jealous of his friendship with Marshall. He'd run across his crew a few times, but he'd never caught the man himself. But apparently, someone else had and put him in the joint. Good, Danny thought to himself. That's where he belonged.

  He remembered that Moses was a very smart man whose only purpose in life seemed to be to do wrong. It was funny how memories distilled themselves into neat little explanations of character and event. When he thought of Marshall he thought of friendship and good times; when he thought of Moses, he felt resentment, anger, and trouble.

  "This is Officer Danny Cavanaugh," Danny said into the receiver. "I need to talk to a prisoner . . ."

Moses Jackson walked into the conference room in leg irons. He had a smile on his face. Danny was sitting at a small wooden table, waiting for him. Danny looked angry as he watched the ghost from his past come closer. He could see Marshall's face in his fraternal twin's. It was creepy, yet fascinating.

  "Excuse me if I don't shake hands," said Moses.

  "Right where I knew you'd always be," said Danny. "I only wish I coulda been the one to take your monkey ass down."

  Moses sat on a creaky wooden chair. "Way I hear it on the street, you'd rather kill a nigga than take him in."

  "Depends on the nigga," said Danny. "I'd give you a fiftyfifty chance of making it to prison."

  Moses laughed, and Danny felt as though he were a kid again and Moses was about to lash out and strike him.

  "Been a long time, little Danny," said Moses.

  "Not so little anymore."

  "I know. Big bad-ass marine and shit. I guess I'd have a rough time kicking your ass now, huh?"

  "You wouldn't even come close."

  "Damn. You still sound just like a brother. All them years in the 'hood just won't fall off your ass, huh? So, you still fucking black women, or did you grow up and come to your senses?"

  Danny started to get up, then kept still. His hands shook a little. He remembered his classes. He waited and let the heat subside.

  "You'd better watch your mouth. People get hurt in jail easy."

Moses laughed again. "So, how's my brother?"

  "Cut the shit, muthafucka. I'm only here to find out if you're telling the truth, then I'm out."

  "Damn, you sound all mad. You still got a short fuse on you, huh?"

  "You ain't never gonna change, are you?" said Danny. "You still try to play everybody you come into contact with. Still trying to put one over on people, even if it don't make a difference if you do. Well, you know what, you can just cancel all that noise with me. I've heard it before."

  "You don't know me anymore," said Moses. "So, don't presume shit about what I do." Moses was angry now, and that made Danny happy.

  "Who's got the short fuse now?" Danny asked. Then he laughed at him. "So, go on, spill it, then you can go back to your cell, put a cork in your asshole, and go to sleep."

  Moses was pissed off again, but he tried to cover. "All right," said Moses. "My brother has the wrong man. Mbutu didn't kill nobody."

  "What proof do you have?"

  "If I told you that, I'd never get out of here, now would I? No, I'll only talk to my brother, but I will tell you this. I know they won't find a slug in the body—just pieces."

  Danny searched Moses' face. After years of training, he could tell most of the time when a scumbag like this was lying. He looked deep into the man across from him, and saw only calmness and determination, the foundation of truth. And if it was indeed the truth, he had an obligation as Marshall's friend to tell him. It was always difficult to cut a deal with a person like Moses. Trading a little bad for a lot of good was ultimately pleasing, but while you were in the middle of it, you felt like dirt.

  "Okay," said Danny. "I'll bring Marshall the message, but if this is some kind of bullshit, you'll be sorry you ever laid eyes on me."

  "I can live with that," said Moses as he got up.

  "Livin' with it won't be the problem," said Danny. Then he walked out, leaving Moses behind him.

M
arshall entered the office and immediately knew something was wrong. The office was his second home. And like a home, he knew when a picture was askew, a pillow in the wrong place, or when someone had been sleeping in his bed. The office was quieter than normal, static, as if everyone was under surveillance.

  Jessica walked up to Marshall. She was dressed in a little business suit and heels. Her cotton blouse was opened to her cleavage, and she smiled flirtatiously as usual.

  "Mr. Williams wants to see you," she said.

  "I thought he was out," said Marshall.

  "He was. He got in late last night. He's in with some men." Then she leaned into him and said: "I think they're from the CIA."

  "CIA?" Marshall whispered to no one in particular. That explained the strangeness in the office. No one liked it when they came around. The FBI guys were bad enough with their boxy suits, and stoic manner, but the CIA was worse. They didn't act superior, they acted omnipotent, like you had to do whatever they wanted, or they would tell you who shot Kennedy, then execute you.

  Marshall called them Faceless Men, people who were so bland and imperturbable that you felt that even their faces might not be real.

  "Thanks, Jessica," said Marshall, and walked to Nate's office.

  Marshall entered to find Nate talking with the two operatives. One was a pale, thin man, with very black hair. The other was tall and muscular, and had one of those five o'clock shadows that never went away.

  "Nate, you wanted to see me?" said Marshall.

  "Yes," said Nate, who, unlike everyone else, looked very comfortable around the two men. "These are Agents Van Ness and Easter from Langley."

  "Hiya doin'?" said Van Ness. He was the pale man. He grabbed Marshall's hand and pumped it. "Art Van Ness."

  Marshall was shocked at the move. He almost took a step back. CIA agents were never so openly emotional. Easter was big, silent, and expressionless. He was the normal Faceless Man.

  "They're going to be following the Douglas assassination," said Williams. "Toby and I have sanctioned their involvement."

  "We're coordinating with Agent Sommers and her people," said Van Ness. "We'll confer with you from time to time, if you don't mind."

  "Why is the CIA interested in this?" asked Marshall. He knew why but wanted to see what the agents would say about their proposed involvement.

  "The agency, of course, is interested in the national security implications of this," said Van Ness. "So, if you have any trouble with anyone, we'll have them killed." Van Ness laughed. Nate joined him. Easter snorted quietly.

  A sense of humor? thought Marshall. He didn't know if he should feel better about Van Ness's humanity, or be terrified by it. What was he covering behind that good ol' boy act? Marshall decided to find out.

  "National security?" said Marshall. "So, are you working with the NSA?" asked Marshall.

  Van Ness bristled a little. To a CIA agent, the National Security Agency was at most a PR department with a small, specific purpose. The CIA was generally interested in everything, and they didn't like it when someone assumed they had any limitation.

  Van Ness's eyebrows fell over his blue eyes at Marshall's statement. Then they rose swiftly, covering his emotion. It happened in the time it took you to blink twice.

  "Nope, we're flying solo," said Van Ness, smiling. "The NSA's duties cover a broader range of security issues. We're concerned about the domestic implications of this."

  "I see," said Marshall. Van Ness's answer was perfect fedspeak. Compliment the other lesser agency, then reassert your authority. "Well, I'll help in any way I can," said Marshall. "I can give you my files if you—"

  "We have them already," said Van Ness. Easter had what should have been a smile on his face. On him, it was a slightly upturned line.

  "I gave the files to them," said Nate Williams. "I wanted to save time."

  Now Marshall bristled. What would possess Nate to commit this kind of betrayal?

  "Fine," said Marshall. "I'm checking the ballistics report today. Or do you gentlemen already have that data too?" He saw Nate frown at his sarcasm.

  "Hell, I wouldn't be surprised," said Van Ness, laughing. "No, I'm kidding. We'd like to see it as soon as you get it."

  "Okay," said Marshall. "Nate, after we get the ballistics report, I'll be back to you for a decision to indict."

  "We need it fast," said Nate. "We can't hold the suspect much longer. So far he hasn't objected. It's as if he wants to stay in lockup, but sooner or later we'll need to shit or get off the pot."

  "Noted," said Marshall. "Fellas, I guess I'll be talking to you down the road."

  "Absolutely," said Van Ness. "It was nice to have met you."

  Marshall took this to mean that the meeting was over, even though he didn't say he was leaving. Nate gave Marshall his "I've got private things to talk about" look. Marshall didn't like to be dismissed, and he certainly didn't like this happy-ass CIA agent, either.

  He left Nate's office and walked quickly into his own office to find Serrus Kranet and Bob Ryder waiting. Roberta Shebbel and Walter Anderson sat in a corner silently. Roberta scribbled on a large legal pad. Ryder was looking at his watch.

  "Late," said Ryder. "Not like you."

  "I was dragged into a meeting with Nate and some CIA agents."