Hornet`s Nest

Chapter Twelve

Missing person reports were so much paperwork, it was unbelievable.

Such investigations were almost always fruitless, for either the person really wasn't missing, or he was and dead. Radar's preference was that West had gotten her butt kicked at Fat Man's. At least Radar could ensure that she would be filling out forms the rest of her life, and Midland was government subsidized housing, definitely not a nice place for a female or her reporter ride-along.

Luellen Wittiker lived in a one-bedroom unit. Her number, 556, like all others in Midland Court, was painted in huge numbers over the door. The city had done this free of charge so the cops could find places fast when out at night with searchlights sweeping and K-9 dogs panting. Luellen Wittiker had just moved here from Mint Hill, where she had worked as a checkout clerk in Wal-Mart until she hit her eighth month of pregnancy and got tired of Jerald coming around. How many times did she have to tell him no. N-0.

She paced, wringing her hands, her four-year-old daughter, Tangine, watching from the bed, which was close to the front door. Boxes were still stacked against a wall, although there were not many, since the Wittiker family traveled light. Luellen prayed every hour that Jerald would not find out where she had moved. He would show up. Oh yes. She paced some more. Where the hell were the police? They think this was the lay-away plan? Can't do it now, pick it up later?

Oh yes. He would find her. Because of that bad seed child of hers.

Wheatie was out there right now, God only knew where, probably trying to find a way to get hold of Jerald, who was not Wheatie's biological father, but his mother's last boyfriend. Wheatie hero-worshiped Jerald, and that was the problem. Tangine watched her mother pacing.

Tangine was eating a Popsicle. Jerald was nothing more than a lowlife drug man who bought and sold the big stuff, and did it, too.

Cain, crack, diesel, smoke, all that shit. He walked around in his big warm-up suit and Filas like he was in the NBA, and had a diamond earring, too, and a 4x4, black with red and yellow detailing. He'd drive up, and Wheatie would start in, walking, badmouthing, cool-talking, just like Jerald. Next thing, Wheatie would start cussing Luellen, and even slapping her around, or smoking marijuana. Just like Jerald. She heard feet on the steps and called out to make sure.

"Police," a woman's voice sounded.

Luellen worked a big cinderblock back from the door, and removed a concrete support steel bar that she had found on a construction site.

She had the same set of improvised locks at the back door, too. Even if Jerald or his bad friends could get in, she'd at least hear things scraping and clanging, and have time to get out her matte-black nine-millimeter Baretta Model 92FS pistol with its Tritium night sights, wood grips, and fifteen-shot magazine. The gun had come from Jerald, as well, and it had been a big mistake giving her this hand-me-down. If he so much as knocked on her door, it would be his last gesture.

"Come on in," Luellen said to the two police officers at the top of concrete steps.

Brazil's eyes adjusted to the glaring illumination of a naked lightbulb in a plastic Greek column lamp. A small TV was on, the Braves playing the Dodgers. There was a boom box in a corner, walls bare, the bed unmade and right there in the living room, a little girl sitting on it. She had braids and sad eyes. It was hot as hell in here, and Brazil started sweating. So did West. She had attached an endless form on top of her metal clipboard, and was prepared to do a lot of writing. Luellen began by telling the police lady all about Wheatie, including that he was adopted and jealous as hell of Tangine and the unborn baby, yet unnamed.

"He called you after he missed the bus," West repeated as she wrote.

"Wanted me to come get him, and I told him I had no way," Luellen said.

"Last time I was pregnant, he jumped on me and I lost the baby.

He was fifteen then. Always been hateful because he's adopted, like I told you. Trouble from day one. "

"You got a recent picture of him?" West asked.

"Packed up. Don't know if I can get to it." Mother described Wheatie as small, bad skin, wearing Adidas, baggy jeans hanging off, teal green Hornets T-shirt and baseball cap, and a fade haircut. He could be anywhere, but Luellen worried that he was running with bad kids and into drugs. Brazil felt sorry for Tangine, who seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things as she climbed down from the bed, fascinated by this blond man in his fancy uniform with all its shiny leather. He got out his Mag-Lite and started bouncing the beam around on the floor, playing with her like she was a cat. Tangine didn't know what to make of this and got scared. She was screaming and did not intend to stop by the time the police left. Mother watched Brazil and West feel their way down the steps in the complete dark.

"Way to go," West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.

Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.

"I'd put a light on if I had one," Luellen said from the doorway.

The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms, having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to respect West's rank.

Were she paranoid, she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got their backs as they typed, and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have asserted herself, but didn't. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.

She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap.

They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath street lights, hateful eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie's wretched life, his loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad examples, and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.

Brazil's early years weren't perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always welcome to visit their small brick precinct, and listen to their stories and gossip and exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal, from students picking up laundry and tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M amp;M soda shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.

tw Wheatie had never experienced any of this, and quite likely never would. At the very moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were four friends, all years older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns, and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high- fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow, hurtful spot in Wheatie's heart was full and feeling fine.

"Give me a gun, I'll go work for you," he said to Slim.

"Little piece like you?" Slim laughed.

"Uh uh." He shook his head.

"I give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing. "

"Bullshit," Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone.

"Nobody fuck with me."

"Yeah, you bad," said Tote.

"Yeah, you bad," Fright imitated Tote, while popping Wheatie on the head.

"Man, I gotta go get me some food," said Slim, who could eat tires after getting high.

"How 'bout we hit Hardee's."

He meant this literally. Slim and company were under the influence and armed, and robbing Hardee's was as good an idea as any they had come up with this night. All of them piled into his red Geo Tracker. They headed out with the radio so loud the bass could be felt five cars away. Wheatie plotted as they drove, thinking about Jerald and how proud he would be of Wheatie right now. Jerald would be impressed with Wheatie's buddies. Wheatie wished Slim, Tote, and Fright could meet Jerald. Shit, wouldn't they step back and give Wheatie a little more respect? Fuck yeah, they would. He watched telephone poles and cars go by, his heart picking up speed. He knew what he had to do.

"Give me a gun, I'll do it," he said loud enough to be heard over heavy metal.

Slim was driving, and laughed again, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

"You will? You ever hit anything before?"

"I hit my mother."

They all laughed.

"He hit his mother! Woooo-weeee! Bad ass!"

They were choking, guffawing, weaving in and out of traffic. Fright slipped out his high-gloss stainless steel Ruger. 357 Blackhawk revolver with its six-and a-half- inch barrel and walnut grips and adjustable sights. It was loaded with six Hydra-Shoks. He handed his piece to Wheatie, who acted as if he knew all there was to know about guns, and owned plenty of them. They pulled up to Hardee's. The friends landed glazed eyes on Wheatie.

"All right motherfucker," Slim said to him.

"You go in and get a twelve-piece dinner, all white meat." He snapped out a twenty-dollar bill.

"You pay and wait. Don't do nothing 'til you got the food, you know? Then you tuck it under your arm, pull out the gun, clean out the registers, and run like hell."

Wheatie nodded, heart drilling out of his chest.

"We ain't gonna be sitting right here." Fright made that point, jerking his head at the Payless gas station next store.

"Back there by the Dumpster. You take long, motherfucker, we leave your ass."

Wheatie understood.

"Get the fuck outa my face," he said, tough and invincible as he tucked the revolver in the front of his pants and pulled his T-shirt over it.

What Wheatie did not understand was that this particular Hardee's had been robbed before, and Slim, Fright, and Tote were aware of it. They were laughing and lighting up another joint even as he walked in and they drove off. Wheatie's little butt was going to get locked up tonight. He'd learn about jailing honestly, his pants falling off because they took his belt, then dropping the rest of the way when some motherfucker got the urge for his sweet little ass.

"Twelve piece, white meat." Wheatie's voice didn't sound quite so tough now that he was at the counter. He was shaking all over and terrified that the fat black lady in a hairnet knew all about his plan.

"What sides you want?" she asked.

Shit. Slim didn't tell him that part. Oh shit. He got it wrong and they'd kill him. His furtive, hard eyes cast about, not seeing the Tracker anywhere.

"Baked beans. Slaw. Biscuits," he did the best he could.

She rang it up, and took his twenty. He left the change on the counter, fearful that tucking it in his pocket might draw attention to the gun. When the big bag of chicken and side orders were gripped under a frail arm, Wheatie drew the gun, not real smoothly, but he got it out and pointed it at the fat lady's startled face.

"Give me all your money, motherfucker!" he commanded in his crudest voice as

the gun shook in his small hands.

Wyona managed this Hardee's and was working the counter because two of her people were out sick tonight. She'd been robbed three times in her life and this little piece of motherfucking white meat wasn't going to make it four. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

"What you gonna do, cockadoodledo? Shoot me?" she sang.

Wheatie had not anticipated this. He clicked back the hammer, hands shaking harder. He wet his lips, eyes jumping. It was decision time.

No way he could let this fat chicken lady dis him. Shit man. He walked out of here without the money and that was the end of his career. He wasn't even sure he'd gotten the sides right. Oh shit, he was in trouble. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The explosion was incredible and the revolver jumped in his hands. The bullet smashed through large fries $1. 99 on the lit-up sign over Wyona's head. She grabbed the big. 357 magnum away from him, and he ran like hell.

V9 Wyona was a firm believer in community intervention. She chased Wheatie out the door. She thundered after him through the parking lot, across the way to the Payless, and behind it where a red Tracker was parked, filled with teenagers smoking weed. They locked the doors.

Wheatie tugged a handle to no avail, yelling, as the huge woman grabbed the back of his pants, yanking them down to his leather Adidas. He fell to the pavement in a tangle of red denim as she pointed the revolver through glass, at the driver's head.

wy Slim knew a determined look when he saw it. This bitch was going to shoot him if he so much as blinked. He slowly lifted his hands from the steering wheel, and held them up.

"Don't shoot," he begged.

"Oh please don't shoot."

"Get on your car phone and call 911 right now," Wyona screamed.

He did.

"Tell them where you are and what you done and that if they don't get here in exactly two minutes, I'm blowing your motherfucking head off!"

she screamed, her foot firmly planted on Wheatie, who was supine and shaking on the pavement, face down, hands covering his head.

"We just robbed Hardee's and are behind the Payless on Central Avenue!" Slim yelled into the phone.

"Please get here quick!"

vy Selma, the 911 operator who got the call, wasn't certain what this was about. But she gave it a priority one because her instinct prodded her in a tragedy-about-to- occur direction. Radar, meanwhile, had not finished with West this night. He passed the emergency along to her.

"Goddamit," West said as she drove past Piedmont Open Middle School. She was trying to avoid other problems, and did not wish to hear her unit number one more time, ever.

Brazil couldn't grab the mike fast enough. '700," he said.

"Unknown trouble, four thousand block of Central Avenue," Radar said with a smile.

West floored it, flying down Tenth Street, cutting over to the one thousand block of Central, flying past the Veterans Park and Saigon Square. Other units backed her up, for by now it had occurred to every cop on the street that their deputy chief was handling a lot of dangerous calls unassisted by anyone. When she rolled into the Payless, six cars with lights flashing were behind her. This was uncommon, but West didn't question it and was grateful. She and Brazil got out. Wyona lowered the gun, now that help was here.

"They tried to rob me," she said to Brazil.

"Who did?" West asked.

"The piece of white shit under my foot," she said to Brazil.

West noted the fade haircut, the bad skin, the Hornets cap and shirt.

The boy's pants were knotted around his basketball shoes, and he had on yellow boxer shorts. Next to him was a big bag of chicken and side orders.

"He come in, ordered twelve piece all white meat, then pulled out this thing." Wyona handed the gun to Brazil because he was the man and Wyona had never dealt with woman police and wasn't about to start now.

"I chased him out here to where these sons of bitches are." She gestured furiously at Slim, Fright, and Tote as they cowered inside the Tracker.

West took the gun from Brazil. She looked back at the six other officers standing nearby and observing.

"Let's lock 'em up," she said to the troops. To Wyona, she added.

Thanks. "

The boys were rounded up and cuffed. Now that they were official felons again and not about to be killed, their bravery returned. They stared hatefully at the police and spat. In the car. West gave Brazil a pointed look. He typed on the MDT, clearing them from the scene.

"Why do they hate us so much?" he said.

"People tend to treat others the way they've been treated," she answered.

"Take cops. A lot of them are the same way."

They rode in silence for a while, passing other poor landscapes, the aspiring sparkling city around them.

"What about you?" Brazil asked.

"How come you don't hate?"

T had a good childhood. "

This made him angry.

"Well I didn't, and I don't hate everyone," he said.

"So don't ask me to feel sorry for them."

"What can I tell you?" She got out a cigarette.

"It goes back to Eden, the Civil War, the Cold War, Bosnia. The six days it took God to make all this."

"You got to quit smoking," he said, and he remembered her fingers touching him as she fixed his shirt.