Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

Stick by Doug Allyn

A two-time Edgar winner in the short-story category, Doug Allyn is also a novelist with two new titles out: The Jukebox Kings and The Lawyer Lifeguard, the latter coauthored with James Patterson. Coming up in 2017’s Best American Mystery Stories, edited by John Sandford, for the first time two brothers — Doug and Jim Allyn — have stories in the same volume, and both of their stories are from EQMM!

“Hey you! Old-timer! What you got in that sack?”

Stick Shefer winced, but kept moving. He’d spotted the punk lurking just inside the alley mouth before he crossed the street. Damn! That alley was a shortcut home and it was a cold December night. Light dusting of snow on the Detroit sidewalks, Christmas decorations in the shop windows.

The alley would save him a three-block walk. But tonight? Taking the long way around would be safer.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, Pops. You with the cane and the old-timey hat. Are you deaf and lamed up both? Life’s tough, eh? It’s about to get a whole lot tougher.”

The junkie shambled out of the alley, blocking the sidewalk. Street punk, torn jeans, biker boots, denim jacket, greasy hair. Eyes like freakin’ pinwheels. Meth head.

And no way past him now. Double damn—

“C’mon Pops, hand over the bag—”

As the junkie grabbed for the sack, Stick broke his nose. Didn’t even think about it. His cane lashed out with a will of its own, smashing the mugger’s face on pure reflex. He’d been using it for so long, the cane was like a part of his arm. A part that went off by itself sometimes. When it definitely shouldn’t. Like now.

The kid staggered back into the alley’s brick wall, burying his face in his hands, then staring down at his blood, spattering the snow, stunned. Then his shock blazed into crank-fired fury.

“You old bastard! I’m gonna open you up for that!”

He meant it too. Fumbling in his leather jacket, the stoner came out with a nine-inch butterfly knife that he flicked open with practiced ease. Definitely knew his way around a blade. Probably fresh out of the joint, where you get good with shivs or become a blood donor.

And this kid was really good. Pushing off the wall, he kept the blade low, close to his side, not waving it out front where Stick could get a swing at it. Twenty years ago, no problem. Wait for a serious thrust, break his freakin’ wrist. Now?

Maybe Stick was still quick enough to take this meth head.

Maybe not.

No time to wonder. The stoner slashed at him with the blade, once, twice! Driving him back. Feints, both times, but his second lunge barely missed by a hair.

Whoa! This freak was really fast! The wavering blade was flickering like lightning now, back and forth, in and out, too quick for Stick to block. The third lunge zipped past his guard, slicing through his coat and across his rib cage, opening a bloody gash. The next strike would open up his heart—

Stick threw his grocery bag at the mugger’s head! It was harmless, but the kid ducked on reflex, throwing up his free hand to protect his injured face—

And Stick hooked the punk’s ankle with the cane’s crook, jerking him off his feet, dumping him flat on his back on the sidewalk. The kid crashed down hard, but managed to keep his grip on the knife, slashing the air wildly, trying to back Stick off.

Stick stepped up instead, jamming the butt of his cane into the punk’s diaphragm to blow out his wind, doubling his knees up in agony, folding him almost in half. Still the stoked-up creep didn’t quit, so high on meth he wouldn’t feel pain till next week. Staggering up from the pavement, the punk thrust the blade out, keeping it weaving, trying to keep Stick at bay—

Bad mistake. He was slower this time. And the older man hacked him hard across the wrist, breaking the bone with an audible snap.

The stoner shrieked, and his blade went flying. Clutching his broken wing to his chest, he crumpled to his knees, then curled into a fetal position against the alley wall, moaning pitifully.

Stick eyed him a moment, making sure he was down and done. He was.

Leaning on his cane, Stick knelt and picked up the knife. Fake pearl grips, a dragon embossed on the blade. Cheap Chinese crap. The kid wasn’t Asian, but Stick couldn’t tell much else about him. Meth heads all have the same zoned-out, zombie look. Their own mothers couldn’t pick ’em out of a lineup. This kid wasn’t at all familiar, though. Definitely not from the neighborhood.

Stick hefted the blade in his palm. Decent balance and sharp as a razor. He considered cutting the kid’s throat as a warning to the next meth head who might be planning a move onto the block to rip off the locals. He glanced around for witnesses. Didn’t see any.

But he saw the light. A single red dot glowing on a box mounted over a door halfway down the alley.

Security camera. How long had that been there?

Long enough, probably. Smile, you’re on a security video...

Damn. Cameras, GPS, and online gambling? Tech was screwing up the world.

Stick gathered up his spilled groceries, then knelt beside the moaning mugger.

“Listen up, you little weasel. I walk this street every day. I know folks and they know me. If I ever see you on my block again, I’ll bust a lot more than your arm. Clear?”

The kid was too lost in misery to answer.

Stepping over him, Stick took his usual shortcut down the alley, heading home to his cold-water walkup.

But he paused under the red light, and flipped it the finger. Then he stalked off into the night, twirling his cane like Fred Astaire.

The next day, Stick spotted the cops as he was unlocking his office door. Two of them, climbing out of an unmarked car down the block. A plainclothes salt-and-pepper team, definitely headed his way. The salt he knew. Detective Dennis Decker, a paunchy bogtrotter with an endless thirst. Sell his mother for a fifth of Glenfiddich.

The pepper half? Nobody he knew. A tall, slim, brown woman, her tightly curled raven hair cropped short as a boy’s. Ducking inside, Stick quickly slid the .45 out of his shoulder rig into an office drawer, sliding it closed as they followed him in.

“Raid, old-timer,” the Irishman said, grinning. “Turn around, hands on the wall.” Decker was big, and copper-haired, crowding forty, running to fat now, watery eyes, busted veins in his cheeks and nose. Wearing a rumpled, off-the-rack Sears sport jacket.

The woman was a lot sharper, tailored suit, white blouse, cafe-au-lait complexion, street-wise eyes. She hung back, leaning against the door. Watching Decker’s play.

Easing down behind the desk, Stick faced the Irishman. “C’mon, Deck, I’m too damn old to lean on anything but my cane. Who’s your new friend?”

“Sergeant Decker told you to assume the position,” the woman said.

“I thought he was kidding. He kids a lot.”

“Not this time.”

“Look, lady, if you’re with Decker, then you’ve seen my sheet. You know I did time at Jackson Prison. Gladiator school. I don’t kiss walls. Not for Decker, not for you, not for nobody.”

“You want to do this the hard way, we can go that route,” Decker said, his boozy grin widening as he jerked a Glock 9 out of his shoulder holster, giving Stick a good look at it. “You know the drill, Shefer. Now assume the damn position. I won’t tell you again.”

Stick swallowed, feeling the savage gash along his ribs from the kid’s blade. He was in no shape to tangle with the Irishman, but he was in no mood to be pushed either. He stayed put in his chair, his eyes locked on Decker’s.

“Or what, Deck? You gonna cap a senior citizen for not moving fast enough to suit you? Seriously?”

Surprisingly, the woman shook her head, smiling. “Give it up, Sergeant. I’ve got this. Take a walk.”

“He has to learn who’s boss,” Decker snapped.

“He knows who’s boss, don’t you, Mr. Shefer?”

“Apparently you’re Deck’s boss, lady. Good for you. My lawyer has an office on Cadillac Square. He donates ten grand to the Patrolmen’s Widows Fund every Christmas. Should I be calling him?”

“No need,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. I just want to talk. I said take a walk, Sergeant Decker. Take it. And buy some mouthwash while you’re at it. You smell like you’ve been gargling scotch.”

Decker turned to go, but paused in the doorway. “Next time I tell you to do something, Pops, you’d best hop to it.”

Stick didn’t answer. It was just bluster now, and they both knew it. Decker left, slamming the door behind him.

The tall woman pulled up a chair, facing Stick across the battered desk. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at him with those brown, liquid eyes. Sizing him up. And realizing his looks were deceptive. He wore a snap-brim fedora and still dressed like swing was the thing, but he was sturdily built, as hard and durable as his cane. And likely just as dangerous. She’d seen him in action.

Stick returned the favor, looking her over as well. And just for a moment, he felt a tremor of remembrance. There was something familiar about her. He knew her from somewhere. But couldn’t bring it to mind. He leaned forward, squinting to read the name tag on her lapel. Detective Lieutenant C. Robinson. Nope. No help.

“You’re new,” he said.

“Not really. Grew up at the far end of the Corridor. Browntown, born and raised.”

“Nobody calls it Browntown nowadays, Lieutenant. Politically incorrect.”

“Hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. I’m sure you donate to the N double ACP, and have tons of black friends.”

“I don’t have friends. What do you want, lady?”

She eyed him a moment, then took a cell phone out of her jacket pocket, switched it on, and held it out to him. It showed a video of Stick, taken the night before, flipping off the security camera in the alley. “Pretty good likeness, wouldn’t you say?”

He didn’t bother to answer.

“There’s more. Three action-packed minutes of you assaulting a minor—”

“The minor had a knife.”

“Which didn’t seem to bother you a bit. You went right at him.”

“As opposed to what? Begging for mercy?”

“Some people might have. But not you. You’re an honest-to-God dinosaur, Mr. Shefer. The last Purple, some say.”

“Last — what?”

“Purple. The old Purple Gang that used to run Detroit like Capone ran Chicago, from Prohibition into the sixties. The police academy teaches a six-week course on your crew.”

“Not my crew, lady. I was just a kid in the sixties.”

“A kid who ran with the Purple Gang.”

“A few old-timers were still around back then,” Stick conceded. “The Axler brothers. Izzy Kaminski. The old-time hoods. I ran errands for ’em sometimes. A gofer. Go for smokes, go for joe. Like that.”

“Kid Stick, they called you then. There’s a story about your nickname. Got clipped by a car running from the law, broke your leg. While you were still in a cast, three thugs from the wrong side of Eight Mile braced you. You busted up all three, with your cane. The same way you wrecked that street punk last night. Do you really need that stick? Or is it an unconcealed weapon?”

“I’m a AARP member, lady. It helps me get around.”

“Really? On the security video, you aren’t limping noticeably until Baggers calls out to you. Then, you start to limp. I don’t think you really need that cane at all.”

“It came in kinda handy last night.”

“That it did,” she admitted with a tight smile, leaning back in her chair, clearly pleased about something. He had no idea what.

But her smile... For a moment, a memory fluttered in the back of his mind, almost raising its head. It was gone before he could grab it. Which made no sense. If he’d met this woman before, he damn sure wouldn’t have forgotten her. Still, that smile...

“You’re not here to bust me for the alley dance with — whoever that kid was. Are you?”

“The mugger’s name is Bernard ‘Baggers’ Gant. Mr. Gant showed up at Samaritan emergency with a broken wrist, wailing that he’d been assaulted. We checked out the security-cam video, but Mr. Gant was clearly the assailant, and was armed with a concealed weapon, namely a butterfly knife. If you’d broken both his arms, Detroit P.D. frankly couldn’t care less.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m taking a trip down memory lane. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I... you seem familiar, but—” He raised his hands in surrender. “I got nothin’, lady. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a very long time. I recognized you the moment you looked up at that security camera. But it took me half the night to remember where I knew you from.”

“And where is that?”

“My grandmother’s piano. Growing up, I saw your face every day for years. My gram had a photograph of you two on her piano, dancing in some nightclub.”

“Sorry, but I don’t—” But suddenly he did. And it felt like a giant vise had clamped down over his heart.

“Mein Gott,” he murmured, “You’ve gotta be Velvet Dunbar’s granddaughter. Rita’s girl. Chantelle?”

“Score one for you, Pops. I’m amazed you remember. It’s been almost thirty years?”

“Close to it.” He shook his head, like a boxer rocked by a punch. “You had a twin brother. Robert?”

“Bobby’s an M.D. now, an obstetrician at Henry Ford.”

“Good for him.” Stick nodded, swallowing. “And you’re a cop.” He hesitated, bracing himself for an answer he truly feared. “And your grandmother? Is Velvet—?”

“Oh hell yes, she’s alive and kicking. She’s like you. Her hair’s silver and she’s maybe a step slower than she was. But not so different from when you two were — well. Whatever you were.”

“A couple,” he said, releasing a ragged breath. “We were... together almost ten years back in the day. She still has that picture of us?”

“Not on the piano, not anymore. When I was nine or ten, I asked who you were. She said she was dancing with the devil. Must have known you pretty well.”

He didn’t say anything to that.

“She put the picture away after that. I hadn’t thought of it in years, until I was scanning the surveillance video from the alley. A helluva thing. I knew I knew you from someplace. Woke up out of a sound sleep at three this morning, remembering where I’d seen you before. The white guy on Grandma Velvet’s piano. She never told me your name. But Deck recognized you. And here we are.”

“So this is what? A social call?”

“Not even close, Shefer. We’ve got you on video beating that kid. I can bust you for assault, hold you forty-eight hours without a charge, then keep you tanked for ten days if I fudge up your paperwork. You’re a loan shark, Stick. And sharks can’t afford to be off the street a day, let alone ten.”

He didn’t argue. She was right.

“But you said you guys didn’t care about what’s-his-name. So why are you here, Chantelle? What do you want?”

“Answers. To some very old questions.”

“What questions?”

“Let’s start with a big one. Are you my grandfather?”

He blinked, surprised. “No. Your mom, Rita, was maybe — twelve when Velvet and I hooked up. Rita was eighteen when she had you and your brother.”

“And you were still with my grandmother at the time?”

“And a few years after. We were together... ten years, give or take.”

“But never married? Why not? Couldn’t get past the black thing?”

“You’ve got it backwards. Velvet wouldn’t marry me. It was tough for mixed-race couples back then. She had family in the south and mixed marriages weren’t recognized there. Your grandmother was strong in the church, and she was a businesswoman, owned two hair salons—”

“Still does,” Chantelle said. “Works every day.”

“And you know what I am,” Stick said. “So did Velvet. Some stuff we got past. Other stuff — not so much.” He shrugged. “I asked her, more than once. She wouldn’t marry me.”

“Smart woman, my gram. Which brings us to this.” She slid a file folder across the desk to him.

He eyed it for a moment, then opened it, wincing at the crime-scene photo of a dead woman of color, her face brutalized by gunfire, slumped over the steering wheel of an ’88 Cadillac. He glanced the question at her.

“Detroit P.D. case file 726, September 11, 1988,” Chantelle said. “The murder of a nightclub singer, one Rita Mae Walker, thirty years ago. My mother. Velvet’s only child. She was shot to death in your car, Mr. Shefer, in the parking lot of the Fifty Grand Club on Dequindre. Which was your club at the time.”

“Not mine. Izzy K. owned the Fifty with a couple of silent partners. I had a piece, managed the place for ’em.”

“Izzy would be one Isadore Kaminski, a notorious mob figure, last boss of the Purple Gang?”

“Iz wasn’t boss of much at that point. He was an old man. Had to be pushing eighty.”

“Eighty-three, actually, but apparently still frisky. According to the record, he went missing the night my mother was murdered. A working theory of the crime had Kaminski making a move on my mom. She turned him down, he didn’t take it well. Did Isadore Kaminski murder my mother?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“You sound awfully sure.”

“I am. Izzy never made a pass at Rita or any other woman. Decker would be more Izzy’s type than your mother.”

“You’re saying Kaminski was gay? That’s not in the file.”

“I expect there’s a lot that ain’t in this file.”

“Kaminski has a long list of violent priors.”

“Hell, Iz was badass back in his day. Growing up in Motown, a gay kid learns to fight early. These were tough blocks back then, and we were tough Jewboys. From Hastings Street north on Congress, Jefferson to East Grand was all Jewish then, first or second generation. A lot of ’em came from Europe ahead of the Holocaust, made it to Motown. Paradise Valley, they called it. And in some ways, it was.”

“How so?”

“Kids played stickball in the streets, old folks could walk to the corner store after dark. Now you got security cameras every block, SWAT teams armored up like storm troopers, and this town still drops more bodies over a weekend than the Purple Gang ever did. Izzy was old-school, looked out for the neighborhood. I don’t know if Iz was still up for bedroom action, but your mom definitely wasn’t his type.”

“Were you her type?”

“What does that mean?”

“She was in your car in the club parking lot when she was shot. What was she doing there?”

“Smoking a joint, I expect. Your ma was a fine singer, but she wasn’t much more than a kid herself back then. Twenty-one or two? I got her the job at the Fifty straight out of the Abyssinian Baptist choir. Nightclub crowds can be rough sometimes. Toking a doobie between sets helped mellow her out.”

“There’s nothing about marijuana in your statement.”

“That Rita was smoking a controlled substance in my car? It must have slipped my mind.”

“The secondary theory was that the shooters were actually gunning for you, Stick. That they killed my mom by mistake.”

“That’s why your grandmother broke it off with me. Didn’t want me around you and Robert in case the shooters tried again. She blamed me for your mother’s death.”

“Was she right?”

“No. Look at the crime-scene photos, lady. Your ma’s got powder burns on her face. Rita was shot at very close range, and your ma and me couldn’t look less alike. Lanky brown chick with an afro. Squared-off Jew in a fedora? Whatever happened that night, it wasn’t by mistake.”

“Then what was it?”

“It’s an unsolved homicide, thirty years old, in a town that averages five killings a week. Why the sudden interest?”

“The victim was my mother. And according to the case file, she was like a stepdaughter to you. But you don’t seem very interested.”

“I told them detectives everything I knew at the time. It just didn’t amount to much.”

“So after my gram gave you the boot, you just wrote my mother off? Not your problem anymore?”

“It wasn’t like that. Velvet was afraid for you and your brother. She made me swear I’d back away from what happened. Wouldn’t try to get no payback for your ma. I promised her I’d let it go, leave it to the law.”

“So somebody caps my mother, in your car, outside your club, and you did what? Wiped her blood and brains off the upholstery and forgot about it?”

“I promised Velvet I’d let it go.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “Your rap sheet’s as long as my arm, Stick. Loan-sharking, bookmaking, half a dozen busts for aggravated assault with that cane, and that’s just page one. Fibbing to your girlfriend wouldn’t even make the list—”

“Velvet wasn’t my girlfriend,” he snapped. “She was — well. A lot more than that. Being a mixed-race couple was tough enough. We didn’t lie to each other, okay? About anything. We had enough to deal with without that.”

“A lover who didn’t lie?” Chantelle said, leaning back, bridging her slender fingers. “No wonder she kept your picture. But we both know a white lie can be a kindness sometimes, to someone you care for.”

“Maybe with some people,” he nodded, “not with us. Look, it was all a very long time ago. What do you want from me, Chantelle?”

“Your help,” she said simply. “Look, I don’t give a damn what you promised my gram back in the day. My mother’s death has been filed away with a hundred other unsolved homicides for almost thirty years. Her case is the reason I became a cop. But nobody’s working it anymore. Hell, even I gave up on it. Until I saw your face on video, and realized there was one last person I could question about it. Maybe the last one left who might actually know something.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or you won’t. Damn it, Stick, we both know you’re in The Life. Are you telling me that in all the years since her death, you’ve never heard a word about it? A rumor, a whisper? Some wino mumbling about a colored singer who got capped way back when?”

“You’re hoping a wino will break your mother’s case?”

She leaned forward in her chair, eyeing him up and down. “Realistically? I probably won’t break it at all. Most likely, it’ll go back into the cold-case file, unsolved. But before that happens? I’m gonna know every damned thing I can squeeze out of you. Maybe even the truth of what happened, maybe not. I’ll get what I can, and settle for that.”

“So... you ain’t necessarily looking to bust nobody for what happened?”

“I’m a career cop, Stick. I know the deck is stacked against closing a thirty-year-old case. But I have two kids of my own now, so I know what my gram must have gone through over my mother’s death. She deserved better. So did my mom. And you’re my last shot at this. So you’re going to help me, or I swear I’ll beat you to death with your own cane.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her in silence, this slim brown woman who reminded him so strongly of— He shook his head slowly.

“Damn,” he said, “you’re definitely Velvet’s granddaughter, ain’t no doubt. And you won’t need to beat me into it. But if we do this thing, I got conditions.”

“Like what?”

“Velvet never hears about—”

“Done,” Chantelle snapped. “What else?”

“After all this time, you know damn well an arrest won’t stick. So we get what we can, and let the rest of it go. Deal?”

“I can do that,” Chantelle said grimly. “I’ve made it this far without knowing. But if something solid does turn up? Don’t get in my way.”

“No problem,” he agreed. “As long as you stay out of mine.”

“I know one guy who might have answers,” Stick said. They were in Chantelle’s unmarked police car. She was driving, Stick was riding shotgun. The backseat was a steel cage.

“Thing is, I’ve got a history with the guy. A bad one. He won’t talk to me, and he’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” Chantelle said. “Who’s your snitch?”

“He ain’t a snitch, he’s in The Life. Name’s Jojo Gomez. Back in the day he was a cardsharp, professional dealer. They called him manitas de oro.”

“Golden hands.” She nodded. “What am I supposed to ask him?”

“There was a poker game the night your ma got killed. Ask him about the game.”

“A game? I don’t understand.”

“Neither did the cops who investigated Rita’s death. They thought Izzy and Rita had a blowup, he did her and took off. They assumed that sooner or later Iz would show, they’d grab him up and close their case. But years passed, no Iz. So they filed Rita’s case away and moved on.”

“Did Kaminski ever come back?”

“No.”

“So they had it wrong.”

“Actually, they were maybe half right. Izzy was the last of the Purple Gang, born and raised in Paradise Valley. He should have come back.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“That’s what you’re going to ask the man with the golden hands,” Stick said. “Pull over. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” Chantelle asked doubtfully, looking around as she eased the car to the curb. The block was in a run-down industrial area. Most buildings were padlocked, their eyeless windows boarded up with plywood. “There’s nothing here.”

“Around the next corner, Samaritan Hospital runs a charity rehab center for junkies and winos. Jojo will be there. I’d better wait here. Maybe Jojo will talk to you, maybe not. But he definitely won’t talk to me.”

“How will I spot him?”

“You won’t have to. Just ask for Jojo. He’ll find you.”

From the street, Samaritan Halfway House looked like the rest of the buildings on the block, shuttered and abandoned. A hand-printed cardboard sign in the window identified the rehab center. It had been torn in half, duct-taped back together.

“Terrific,” Chantelle muttered as she pushed through the door. It opened into a short corridor, blocked by a battered Salvation Army desk. Two doors beyond it led into the building, but they were blind, their windows painted flat black.

A gaunt old-timer in a wheelchair glanced up from some paperwork as Chantelle entered. He was in faded denims, his full beard shot with gray, and he was writing with considerable difficulty. Both hands were brutally distorted, curled into claws.

“Help you?” he asked warily.

“I’m Detective Robinson, Detroit Metro Homicide,” Chantelle said. “I’m looking for a Jojo Gomez. Is he a patient here?”

“Jojo? Nah, not a patient,” the cripple said, opening the desk’s top drawer.

“I was told—”

“Mr. Gomez runs this place,” he said, coming up with a short-barreled revolver. He held it clumsily with both hands, but had no trouble cocking it, and centering the muzzle on her heart. “Back up against the wall, lady, and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

“Whoa, chill out, pal. I really am a police officer—”

“I said get them hands up!”

“Calm down! Let me show you my police ID. What’s your problem?”

“Your problem is, you wasn’t born when I still went by Jojo. I been through livin’ hell since then, and—”

He froze. Stick had edged through the darkened door behind him, and jammed the tip of his cane against Gomez’s spine.

“Don’t turn around, Jojo. Put the damn gun on the desk.”

Gomez licked his lips, then swallowed.

“Don’t even think about it,” Stick growled, prodding him hard with the cane tip. “Your golden hands ain’t near as quick as they used to be.”

“Dios,” Gomez groaned, sagging as though someone had let his air out. He placed the revolver carefully on the desk and raised his broken hands.

Picking up the piece, Chantelle flipped open the cylinder, dumped the cartridges into the wastebasket, then slid the revolver into her jacket.

“What the hell was that about?” she demanded.

“I knew you were with him,” Jojo said, his voice shaking. “Knew it soon as I heard my old name. What do you want, Stick?”

“Same as before. You’re gonna tell the lady about the game.”

“I already told you everything—”

“Now tell her!” Stick snapped, slamming his cane on the desktop so hard Gomez nearly jumped out of his chair. “Tell it from the top.”

“All right, all right! Jesus! Don’t go off on me again.”

“He won’t hurt you, Mr. Gomez,” Chantelle said. “Not as long as you tell me the truth. What do you know?”

“It, um, it was back in the eighties,” Jojo said, swallowing. “Eighty-eight, maybe? I got hired to deal a high-stakes game at the Fifty Grand Club. It was supposed to be like a... I don’t know. A peace conference or something. This Syrian crew from Ecorse were movin’ coke by the ton, wanted to expand into Paradise Valley. Izzy K. was against it, but he was an old man, didn’t have much juice anymore. So the Syrians’ boss, Cheech Maksoud, sets up this poker game to work out a deal. I dealt a lotta big games back in them days, people trusted me.”

“Their mistake,” Stick growled.

“Why a mistake?” Chantelle asked.

Gomez hesitated, but a glance at Stick changed his mind.

“That game?” Jojo sighed. “It wasn’t on the level. Maksoud wanted me to shade the deal a little, to make sure Izzy got good cards, so he keeps winning, keeps on playing. I figured there’s no harm in lettin’ the old man win a few bucks—”

“Cut the crap,” Stick said, prodding Gomez with his cane. “Tell her what happened.”

“By midnight, Mr. Kaminski is pretty wasted. Maksoud breaks up the game, and me and his number two, Joey Segundo, we walk the old man out to a car. And that’s all I know. I had nothing to do with the rest of it.”

“The rest of what?” Chantelle demanded.

“Tell her,” Stick grated. “All of it.”

“We—” Gomez swallowed hard. “Me and Joey, we get the old man out to Maksoud’s Cadillac, roll him into the backseat. Izzy’s pretty much out of it, drunk as a skunk. Then Maksoud spots this girl in a car, watching us. He tells me to check her out. So I go over there, but it was just Rita, the singer from the club. She asks me what’s up with Izzy, I say nothin’, he’s hammered is all. I waved the Syrians off, that the girl’s all right, you know? And I headed back inside. And that’s the end of it. Every damn thing I saw.” He looked up at Stick, all but cowering.

“That’s not all you heard, is it?” Stick said. “Tell her about the shooting.”

“What shooting?” Chantelle demanded.

“I don’t know about no shooting,” Jojo said. “I didn’t see nothin’, you understand? But back in the club? Maybe I heard something that could have been shots. But maybe it was a truck backfiring or something. The band was playing, so I can’t say for sure.”

“You just did.” Stick nodded. “Let’s go, Lieutenant.”

“Not yet. One more question, Mr. Gomez. You were a cardsharp before. How did you end up like this? In a wheelchair?”

Jojo glanced at Stick, his eyes glittering. “I... fell down a flight of stairs,” he said. “My bad luck.”

“Or maybe bad karma,” Stick said.

Jojo glared his hatred, but didn’t argue the point.

Afterwards, in the car, Chantelle kept glancing at him as she drove.

“What?” he asked.

“You did that to him, didn’t you? You beat him, busted him up, and put him in that chair.”

“His life did that. You run with the wrong people, bad things happen sometimes.”

“I guess you’d know.”

“Izzy didn’t drink,” he said flatly. “And the band wasn’t playing.”

“What?”

“Rita was in my car, so the band was on break. They weren’t playing. What Jojo heard was gunfire. Right after he left your ma.”

She nodded curtly, but didn’t say anything.

“And Iz never drank when he was gambling,” he went on. “He’d sip iced tea out of a brandy glass to keep a clear head. If he was wrecked, it was because somebody slipped him a mickey. Loaded his drink. Couldn’t have been the Syrians. Iz would have been watching them.”

“You think it was Gomez.”

“He had golden hands back then. Not so fast now.”

“But he already told you all this, didn’t he? A long time ago, right? When you wrecked him. Why did you bother to take me to see him, Stick? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because all you really know about me is that years ago, I kept company with your grandmother, who told you I was the devil. You’ve got no reason to take my word for anything. But if you’re half as smart as Velvet? I figured you’d know the truth when you heard it.”

She nodded slowly. “Gomez was telling the truth. He’s terrified of you. Because you beat him into that chair.”

“Back then, I thought he was a part of what happened,” Stick shrugged. “By the time he gave up his part of it, what he did — well. In a way, he was like your mother. In the wrong place at a real bad time.”

“He said my mom was okay when he left her. What actually happened?”

“I think you pretty much know what happened, girl.”

“I can make an educated guess,” she agreed, glancing at him. “So can you. It’s not the same as knowing.”

“After all this time, what’s the difference? Knowing might be worse.”

“Worse than what you did to Jojo? Just tell me what really happened.”

“What Jojo said happened,” Stick said evenly. “Your mother saw Gomez and them Syrians roll Izzy Kaminski into a car.”

“And Maksoud saw her,” Chantelle said, swallowing. “And you think either he or his pal walked over and shot her. Five times, point blank.”

Stick nodded. “Most likely, that’s how it was.”

“Most certainly,” she countered. “And where are they now. Maksoud and his buddy?”

“Dead, I expect.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t, for certain sure. But they were in the drug trade, girl. Not many dealers make it to old age.”

“Hmmph.” She pulled a cell phone out of her breast pocket, thumbing the tabs faster than he could follow, then frowning at the screen.

“Maksoud is listed as... missing,” she said. “Wanted for questioning. Since nineteen eighty-nine. What was his friend’s name? Segundo?” She was texting as she spoke. “Him too. Do you know where they are, Stick?”

“That wasn’t our deal. You wanted to know what happened. Now you do.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t just... walk away from this now.”

“You promised you would!”

“Well, I’m taking my promise back! You’re a criminal, I’m a cop, we lie to each other every damn day, all day long. And this time, I need a little more of that honesty you and my gram were so proud of. After Jojo gave them up, did you go after Maksoud and his pal?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked away.

“Did you kill them, Stick?”

“The last time I seen Maksoud he was alive and well.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No. Not exactly, anyway.”

“But you do have some idea? You could find him?”

“I know — a place he used to hang around.”

“Good. Take me there.”

“Damn it, that wasn’t our deal, Chantelle! You said—”

“I know what I said! But this is more important now. Definitely more important than you. And unless you want to die of old age in a cell, Pops, you’re going to take me to them. Right now!”

The Slide-n-Ski amusement park sits atop a towering slope, among the low hills that give Warsaw Heights its name. A water slide in the summer, a ski and toboggan slope in winter months, the place was crazy busy, overrun with school kids on Christmas break, being chased by harassed nannies and barking parents.

“Christ, it’s a total mob scene,” Chantelle said, looking around in dismay as they rolled into the lot. “We can’t start anything here.”

“We aren’t here to start anything,” Stick said “We’re here to finish it. Come on.”

He bought two tickets for the chair lift, and they slid onto a bench seat as it floated past, settling back for the long climb to the top of the mount. Chantelle scanned the slopes below for danger, but saw only the opposite. Kids waiting on line at the toboggan runs, buying hot chocolate and elephant ears at fast-food kiosks.

“Do they work here?” she asked, looking around as they stepped off the seat at the top.

“No.”

“What then? Where are they?”

“I told you I’m not sure,” he said. “Down below somewhere.”

“Down the slope?”

“No,” Stick said. “Under it.”

She turned slowly to face him. “What are you saying?”

“Thirty years ago, this park didn’t exist yet,” he said, gesturing at the kids scampering around in happy chaos. “Back then it was a landfill for the city, a hundred-acre pit seventy feet deep, busy as a bus station. Garbage trucks rolling in and out every ten minutes, dumping thirty tons of trash every trip. A few years later, it wasn’t a pit no more. It was a rise, but they kept on piling up the trash, higher and higher until I guess it couldn’t hold one more gum wrapper. Then they laid sod over the pile. And made it into a big grassy mountain. Or a toboggan slide or a water slide.”

“Or a graveyard?” she asked. “What are you telling me, Stick?”

“This is where I brought them, Maksoud and Segundo. The same place they dumped Izzy K. For a few years afterward, I checked now and again, to make sure everything was copacetic. Back then, I had a rough idea where they might be. I got no clue anymore.”

She turned slowly to face him. “Just so we’re absolutely clear, you’re telling me you dumped two bodies—”

“Not bodies. I dumped them. Maksoud and Segundo. Like I said, they were alive and well when I saw ’em last. Just before I rolled ’em down into that pit. They was trussed up pretty tight with duct tape, but they were definitely still breathing. Cursing me all the way to the bottom. If you put me on one of them lie detectors, I couldn’t say for sure what happened to ’em, or where they are now. I didn’t hang around. Like I said, the garbage trucks were rolling in every few minutes to unload.”

Chantelle’s eyes widened. “You mean—?”

“They were alive when I left, Chantelle. Could be alive today, for all I know. Not too likely, though.”

“Sweet Jesus.” She stared at him, stunned. “But what about your promise? You swore to Velvet you wouldn’t go after payback.”

“For your mother,” he agreed. “But Rita wasn’t the only one who died that night. Izzy K. was an old man, the last of the Purples. And where I grew up? There were worse things to be. So if there was any payback, it wasn’t for your ma. Whatever happened was for Izzy.”

“Payback for a gangster,” she said. “Not for the colored girl?”

“Okay, maybe that was part of it,” he admitted grimly. “Rita wasn’t in The Life, Chantelle, she had nothin’ to do with it. She saw them shoulder Izzy out of that game. Had no idea who they were, or what was up. They killed her like swatting a fly.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“Maksoud practically spat it in my face. Just before I kicked him down into the pit.”

“Dear God,” she said, turning away from him, hugging herself.

“You wanted to know what happened, Lieutenant. Now you do. Feel any better?”

She didn’t answer. Just shook her head.

“And I’m guessing you’ve had your phone switched on the whole time, recording this,” Stick continued. “So I’m busted. Right?”

She turned slowly to face him again. Reading his eyes. He had no idea what she was thinking.

“No offense, Mr. Shefer, but you said it yourself. All l really know about you is that you used to keep company with my gram, and she told me you were the devil. Plus, your rap sheet’s as long as my arm. So I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I just don’t find you to be a credible witness.” She switched off her phone. “But thank you,” she added.

“For what?”

“What you just confessed to would be a capital crime, if I believed you. As it happens, I don’t. But you took one helluva risk in telling me.”

“You had a right to know,” he shrugged. “But I got a right to a favor in return.”

“What favor?”

“You don’t tell your grandmother any of this, Chantelle. She buried your ma thirty years ago. Don’t dredge it all up again. Let it be.”

“But she blames you for my mother’s death, Stick. And blames herself even more, I think.”

“For what?”

“For dancing with the devil.”

“Maybe she was right about that part,” he said.

“No,” Chantelle said drily, “I don’t think she was. C’mon, Pops, let’s grab a chair lift. Unless you’d rather ride down on a toboggan.”

But down in the car, she turned to face him.

“I’m sorry, Stick, but I can’t keep my other promise either. About my grandmother? I can’t lie to her about this. If I had a right to know, so does she.”

“Leave it, Chantelle. It was a lifetime ago.”

“Really? Is that how it feels to you, Stick? Like the dead past? Because it damn sure doesn’t feel that way to Velvet. We never talk about my mom. She gets so torn up she can hardly speak.”

“All the more reason to let it go.”

“But that’s just it. I can’t. She can’t. Because as bad as — whatever happened was? I think it’s worse for her to believe nothing was ever done about it. She deserves the truth, that there was justice for my mother’s death. That the people who did it were punished. And the retribution was freakin’ Old Testament Biblical. An eye for an eye. She needs to know.”

“Even if the justice came from the devil?”

“You mean the devil in the picture? Dancing with my gram? Thing is, years later, I found that picture again. She didn’t throw it away. It was on her nightstand the whole time, in a reversible frame. Mom, Robert, and me on one side, you two dancing on the other. Hidden in plain sight. Smart woman, my Gram.”

“Smart enough to cut me loose.”

“Only because she was desperate to protect Robert and me. I can straighten some of this out, Stick, but you have to do the rest. She takes my kids skating in the park every Sunday after church. Talk to her. Maybe there’s no way to set this right, but at least give it a proper burial.”

She waited for his answer. And waited.

“It’s too late, Chantelle,” he said at last. “Let it be. You owe me that much.”

“I suppose I do at that,” she sighed. “Funny. I’ve seen your rap sheet, Stick. So I know how old you are. But I didn’t think of you as being old. Until now.”

She drove him back to his office, neither of them saying a word. And after she left, he sat at his battered desk watching the daylight fade. Staring at his office door. Listening to the silence.

Sunday in the park, with Christmas only a week away. A crisp winter afternoon, with new snow glistening, stray flakes drifting down. A Baptist choir in the band shell, carols rising in the icy air.

Stick was on a hill that overlooked the skating rink, nearly invisible in the shadow of an old oak. Watching as a tall, elegant woman of color, dressed primly for church, came strolling through the gate, with two little kids scampering ahead of her.

Velvet’s hair was silver now, glistening with melted snowdrops. And he realized Chantelle was right. In that moment, the thirty lost years felt like thirty lost minutes.

Sensing his gaze on her, she stopped and frowned, and looked up, shading her eyes against the snowy glare.

Then she saw him. Watching.

She didn’t react. Just stared up the hill at him for what seemed like a very long time. Then she gestured at the kids, who were already on a park bench, tying on their skates. She couldn’t leave them. But still she stood there, watching him. With her arms folded.

Waiting.

He started down the hillside to her, slowly at first, then gradually picking up his pace, feeling lighter and younger with every step, feeling the years falling away. Even the ancient ache of his limp was fading.

And as he hurried past a litter barrel—

He threw his cane away.