Drama City

TWENTY

Rico Miller sat on a folding chair by the big front window of the apartment, watching the street. Melvin had told him not to stay there, but he was bored. He had tried playing Counter-Strike on Xbox, but he was used to the PS2 controller and grew frustrated using one he didn’t know nothing about. He had thought getting high might help him master the system, but that didn’t educate him either. The fat joint he’d smoked had only made him more confused. And that had sent him to where he was at right now, staring out the window. Wasn’t much skill you needed for that.

Down on Sherman, a white woman with stuff in her hands got out of her car, some square-back hooptie. Looked like she was carrying a file or something like that. A cell too, and some kind of little leather case.

She didn’t look all white. She might have been Spanish or something; he couldn’t tell. She was wearing jeans and a shirt had no style. She didn’t belong on this street. It wasn’t her color. There were a few whites and plenty of browns down here. It was the way she carried herself, walking down the sidewalk, aware of where she was, trying to act like this was her neighborhood when it was not. Miller had this talent. He could smell police.

Soon as this entered his mind, a 4D patrol car, heading east on Irving, turned up Sherman. It slowed near where the woman was walking and pulled over to the curb. The woman hesitated, seemed to recognize the driver, and went to the open window. He couldn’t see the woman’s face as she bent forward.

That woman’s talking to one of her own, thought Miller. She’s conspiring with the police in the car.

The uniform police spoke to the woman police for a couple of minutes, and then the uniform took off. The Crown Vic’s tires caught rubber on the street. The woman got back up on the sidewalk, went down it some, and turned toward Melvin’s row house. As she made her way to it, she looked up at the third-floor window. Miller leaned back in his chair.

She seen me, he thought. I fucked up. Police coming up here looking for Melvin. I should do what Melvin say to do and go out the fire escape and run.

He went back to the bedroom and opened the window. He looked down at the mesh platform outside the window and the ladder below it. What good would it do Melvin if he, Rico, was to book on out? If the police was looking at Melvin for the murders, they would get him up there at the car wash just the same. What Rico needed to do was to stop them from looking. Leastways, hold them off until he and Melvin could leave out of town. Besides, to run on out of here, from a woman? That didn’t work for him.

High like he was, it was hard to know what to do. He closed the window and stood stupidly in the center of the room.

Miller put his hand in his pocket and touched leather. He touched the rough part of the leather where the letter C was at. He ran his finger down to touch the R. Then the E, and then the other E. And then the P. Miller heard a grinding sound.

Rachel parked on Sherman, gathered her badge case, her cell, and her file on Melvin Lee, and got out of her car. She locked the Honda and went down the sidewalk toward Lee’s address. It was a row house like all the others on the block. The file said he lived on the third floor.

An MPD patrol car came off Irving and up Sherman. Rachel clocked the Fourth District designation and identification numbers on the Crown Vic. It came to a stop curbside. As the window slid down, she saw that it was Donald Peterson, one of the many cops she had worked with over the years, behind the wheel. Peterson was a sergeant, black, and somewhere on the good side of forty. He was well built, close to handsome, and, like many cops, divorced.

She liked him; he had a confident cool. He had flirted with her when they’d first met, down at the District Courthouse, and asked her out. It was a respectful, nonaggressive flirtation, and she had been flattered. But she had politely declined, explaining that she had just come through a rough stretch, dealing with the illness of her parents, and wasn’t ready to date. Of course, it had nothing to do with her parents. She had never been in an equal relationship, one where she was not in complete control. The thought of it frightened her.

“Hey, Donald,” she said, leaning on the lip of his window, feeling the bite of the ice-cold air-conditioning blowing in the car.

“Miss Lopez. Making a house call?”

“A Melvin Lee.”

“Spidery-lookin’ gentleman,” said Sergeant Peterson, who had been working the Fourth for over fifteen years. “Toiled under Deacon Taylor, if I recall.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t tell me: You missionary types are interested in their futures, not their pasts.”

“Can’t do anything about their pasts.”

“What’s he doing now? Pediatric surgeon, somethin’ like that?”

“He works in a car wash.”

“Another productive member of society.”

“Somebody’s gotta keep the cars clean.”

“Send him up to the station. Mine could use a bath.”

“You guys are always looking for a handout.”

A call came over the radio, something about a man driving erratically down Georgia Avenue. Peterson keyed the mic and told the dispatcher that he’d respond, then replaced the mic in its cradle.

“I was wonderin’…”

“What?”

“You like seafood?”

“Love it.”

“Ever been to Crisfields?”

“No.”

“You gonna make me work for this, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been to Crisfields and I’d like to go.”

“When?”

“Give me a call.”

“You still in that same office?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Peterson pulled down on the transmission arm. “Let me get on over to Georgia. See what this guy’s malfunction is.” He looked Rachel over, then looked directly into her eyes. “Be safe.”

“You too, Donald.”

Rachel backed off the window and Peterson drove away. His tires squealed, leaving rubber on the asphalt, as he took off.

They can’t help themselves, thought Rachel. They’re all boys at heart.

She went up the walkway to the row house where Melvin Lee stayed. As she walked, she smiled and shook her head. All this impulsive behavior in one afternoon. Sergeant Peterson had tried one time, a while back. Turning his car up Sherman as she was making a house call, maybe it was just his lucky day. Could be it was hers too.

Rachel entered the row house and took the steps up to the third floor. She heard television sets and the bass of a stereo as she ascended the stairs. She made the landing and knocked on the door marked 3B. She put her cell phone in her front pocket and kept her badge case and file in her hands. There were footsteps behind the door, and then the door opened.

A young man who was not Melvin Lee stood in the frame. He was tall and thin and had a long lupine face. His eyes were nothing eyes and told her only that he was high. She had seen this look, absent of all humanity, on some of the young offenders in her case files. She had seen it more frequently in the last couple of years.

“Melvin Lee,” said Rachel, badging the young man.

“I ain’t Melvin.”

“I’m looking for Melvin,” she said, keeping her eyes on his and her tone firm. “I’m Miss Lopez. Melvin’s probation officer.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Is Melvin around?”

“He out. He gonna be back soon.”

Rachel smelled marijuana from inside the apartment. She slipped the badge case into the rear pocket of her jeans.

“I’ll come back,” said Rachel. “Tell him I was here.”

Rachel turned to go.

“Hold up,” said the young man, and Rachel stopped.

“Yes?”

“I’m sayin’, he only gonna be out for, like, ten minutes, somethin’ like that. He only buyin’ a pack of smokes.”

“Who are you?”

“Rico.”

“My question is, what is your relation to Mr. Lee?”

“Melvin my father,” said Rico. “Come on in and wait, you want to. He ain’t gonna be but a bit.”

Rachel hesitated. She tried to remember if Lee had a son. She didn’t think it was in his file. He had omitted it, maybe, on the form. Not unusual, but still a lie. A violation, along with the weed, if there was any left. If the boy hadn’t flushed it down the toilet already.

She needed to note these things for the record. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it was her job. She stepped inside the apartment. The boy named Rico closed the door behind her.

They stood, awkwardly, in the living room. Rico did not ask her to have a seat or offer her something to drink.

Rachel looked at her watch. “I’ll wait five minutes. Then I have to go.”

The boy shrugged.

“I was supposed to see Melvin at his place of employment yesterday,” said Rachel. “But I misplaced the location. He works at that car wash, right?”

The boy nodded.

“Where is that again?”

“You don’t think I know?”

“I’m asking. Like I say, I had it written down somewhere -”

“But you mis- placed it.” Rico smiled. There were gaps between his rotten teeth. “It’s that one up there on Georgia.”

“Right,” said Rachel.

“Now you remember, huh.” Rico looked her over. The smile was frozen on his face.

It was hot in the apartment. The window unit is running, thought Rachel, and still it’s hot.

Rachel glanced past Rico to the table in front of the couch. Nothing there but a couple of video game controllers and an empty orange soda bottle.

“Lookin’ for something?” said Rico.

Rachel said nothing. Rico chuckled.

“How old are you?” said Rachel, feeling a flush of anger.

“Seventeen.”

“And your father is, what, thirty?”

“’Bout that, I guess.”

“So you were born when he was thirteen. That means you were conceived when Melvin was twelve?”

“Huh?”

“You father was twelve when he got your mother pregnant. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I ain’t never done the math, lady.”

“It’s Miss Lopez.”

The boy stepped forward and stood close to Rachel. She could smell his foul breath.

Rachel did not step back. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ a closer look at you. You mind?”

Rachel stared into his eyes. If she looked away or backed up, she would lose.

“You old,” said Rico. “But that don’t make no difference to me. I’ll fuck you in every hole you got.”

“You’re about to get yourself and Mr. Lee in a whole world of trouble,” said Rachel. She felt a nerve twitch at the corner of her mouth as she spoke.

“Who gonna cause that trouble?” said Rico. “You? Or maybe you think your police friend gonna come in here now and cause some trouble. Thing is, he gone, Miss Lopez. Way the smoke came off his tires on Sherman, looked to me like he had to take a call.”

“I’m out of here,” said Rachel, and she turned to go.

She heard Rico laughing behind her.

“Come on, Miss Lopez,” he said. “I’m just playin’ with you.”

Rachel patted the front pocket of her jeans and felt her cell. She began to walk and heard his footsteps behind her.

“Hey,” said Rico, “you forgot your badge.”

She turned toward him, and as she turned she reached around to her back pocket and touched the rectangular outline of her badge case. She felt her stomach drop and the color drain from her face.

Rico held a serrated knife in his upraised hand. He brought it down violently and plunged the blade into her breast. She gasped at the pain as he withdrew it.

“Popi,” said Rachel. Her eyes crossed and she screamed, “God!”

The knife swept down again. Rico’s face was a grimace of effort and ambition, and the steel pierced her flesh and bone.

Rachel’s howl filled the room.