Color of Justice (15 page)

The girl took him into the basement. They descended the stairs. Danny always had an ominous feeling walking into the cellars of these drug houses. You never know what you'd find. A bunch of junk or a bunch of bodies.

The basement was dim and dank. It took his eyes a moment to focus, but soon Danny could see the people crowded on the floor and leaning against the walls. It was like a sick room, filled with foul human odors undercut with a sad medicinal smell.

“Bellva!” Danny yelled out.

The crowd murmured and a man said, “Whatchoo wont, honey?” followed by hoarse laughter and a stagnant cough. Danny moved farther into the room and felt Lilly fall off his arm. She moved over to a man whom he guessed she knew because she rammed her tongue into his mouth.

Danny called out for Bellva again and a man lumbered over to him.

“She upstairs, in da front. Now, stop all that yellin', man.”

Danny ran back upstairs and scanned the bodies on the living room floor. There were ten people in the room and four of them were women. He called out the name suddenly and saw one of the women, a thin girl with a cascade of unkempt braids, jerk her head slightly, then just as quicky turn back. Danny moved over to her and knelt down to where she was sitting.

“I need to talk to you,” said Danny.

“I don't know what you talkin' 'bout, man,” she said in a voice that was decidedly unhealthy.

“John Baker is dead, and whoever did it might be looking for you.” This was a lie, but Danny was hoping that she wouldn't recognize that. To make his point, he showed her his badge.

She reacted, scared, then stared into Danny's eyes, a gaze that was unusual for a drug addict. In her eyes, he saw the familiar look of devastation behind her fear.

“Johnny's dead?” she asked in an innocent voice. “I didn't have nothing to do with all that. Johnny was just a job, you know.”

“Come on, I can't talk here.”

Danny lifted her off the floor and walked her out of the building. He stuffed her into his car and drove away from the godforsaken place.

“You wouldn't be doing all this just to get me to do you a little favor, woulda?” She leaned toward him, trying to look pretty.

In the light, Danny could see that she was as young as Lilly but not as bad off. Bellva was still on the pretty side of her addiction. The drugs had not yet robbed her of all her beauty.

“No,” he said. “I want to know what you know about John Baker.”

“Hey, where we goin'?” she asked as Danny gunned the car toward the freeway.

“To meet a friend.”

 

Bellva put another sugar into the black coffee at a McDonald's which faced the I-75 service drive at Warren Avenue.

On the way over, Danny had grilled the girl about her associates, and as far as he could tell, she wasn't hooked up with a pimp or some jealous boyfriend who could have killed the Bakers.

Danny and Erik watched the girl fill her Styrofoam cup with sweetness. Not like a hit of heroin, but it would have to do.

Erik had been happy when Danny called him with the news that he had the girl. Erik was over on the west side in the middle of some nasty shit with a snitch when Danny phoned. Erik was glad to get away from the snitch, who apparently had recently lost one of his hands in a dispute.

“Y'all gon' take me down the thirteen hunnet?” asked Bellva.

“No,” said Erik. “Not unless you make us.”

“Cool, cool,” said Bellva, smiling. “I don't need that shit in my life. Thirteen hunnet Beaubien. Hey, did y'all know Beaubien was a French word?
Beaubien,
B-e-a-u-b-i-e-n
,” she spelled in a proper voice. “I'm good at spellin'. I won my junior high spelling bee when I was eleven,” she said proudly. And for a moment she wasn't a drug addict, she was an innocent, a noble young girl with a special talent.

“That's cool,” said Danny, trying to make her feel more comfortable.

“Yeah, it was in the newspaper and every-thang,” said Bellva. “I can still do it, too. Like you,” she said, pointing to Danny. “Yo' name sounds easy, but it ain't. Cavanaugh,
C-a-v-a-n-au-g-h
. See, a dumbass would say
C-a-v-a-n-a
. But you got what you call silent letters in that shit.”

She smiled again, proud of this singular knowledge in her ravaged mind. Her smile brightened her face, and for an instant she was cute. One of the saddest things about a drug addict is that you always see flashes of them as kids, Danny thought, and you know life must be some sick-ass shit to have turned anyone's baby into that.

There was a loud commotion on the other side of the restaurant. Danny and Erik immediately turned to check it out. The noise had come from the table with two loud young brothers of about twenty or so. They were layered in gold and wore expensive leather jackets. They had a mountain of food on the table. Dealers, thought Danny.

Erik cut them a nasty look. The dealers only laughed even though they had made out Danny and Erik as cops. Gone were the days when a lowlife was scared of the police. Now they were
defiant, arrogant even. Not until you had the goods on them did they recognize that you had any special power.

Bellva saw the dealers and smiled at them, flirting. They nodded, then laughed, pounding their fists together at some comment.

“So, how long were you with Mr. Baker?” asked Danny, wanting to get back to business with Bellva.

“Me and Johnny was kickin' it about three months or so.” She took a long swig of the coffee.

“And what did y'all do?” asked Danny.

“Sex,” she said. “Damn, whassup with you?”

She didn't use the word Danny expected to hear, the
F
word. When a hooker didn't say that word, it meant she was up to something other than copulation. This made Danny suspicious.

“What kind of sex?” asked Danny, and he said
sex
with emphasis.

Bellva leaned back in her seat, and took on a frightened, then embarrassed look. “Well, we never did it the normal way, you know,” she whispered, leaning in toward Danny and Erik. “He was scared. I don't know why. I never share needles, and I don't fuck them switch hitters. He let me get him off with my hand. He was gonna pay me a grip to do it with a girl, but I couldn't find one in time.” Bellva leaned back, then a smile spread across her face. “Hey, I got one for you—that street, Gratiot.” She pronounced it
gra-shit
. “
G-r-a-t-i-o-t,
that's French, too, you know, hard as hell to spell that one.”

“Ever do it in his house?” asked Erik, trying to keep her focused.

“No,” she said forcefully. “He'd never let me get close to his place. He was scared as hell of his wife.”

“Was he ever afraid of anything or anybody else?” asked Danny.

“No, Johnny wasn't scared of nothing, not like we think about being scared.”

“Then how?” asked Erik. There was some impatience in his voice.

“He was always worried about something called Castle,” said Bellva.

“Castle what?” asked Danny.

“I don't know,” said Bellva. “He wouldn't ever say a lot. One time he'd had a few drinks in him and he started talkin' all proper and shit, he say ‘Fear stalks the Castle,'” she intoned in a deeper voice. “It was like something out of one of them old scary movies.”

“The Castle Society?” asked Erik.

“Ring a bell?” asked Danny.

“Yeah. It's a group, I mean
was
a group, but it don't exist anymore,” said Erik.

Then it clicked for Danny. Castle was the name printed beneath the picture at Virginia Stallworth's home.

“When Mr. Baker talked about the Castle, was it about history, what it used to be?” asked Erik.

“Hell no,” said Bellva. “He was talkin' 'bout right now.”

“Did Mr. Baker say anything at all that would
make you think he was in danger from anyone in particular?” asked Danny.

“Naw, not really,” said Bellva, “but this one time, I was doing Johnny, had him in my hand nice and stiff, you know, and, he started talking about that Castle thing, and he just went limp, lost it, like he didn't care anymore. Only scary shit makes a man lose his hard-on, baby.”

“Did Mr. Baker ever mention a company that he started, New Nubia?” asked Erik.

“Naw,” said Bellva. “Johnny never liked to talk about bid'ness with me. Probably thought I wouldn't understand it.”

“Did he ever talk about having a lot of money, or leaving town?” asked Danny. It was a long shot, but he had to ask.

“No,” said Bellva. “If he was gonna skip town, he woulda asked me to go with him. Damn, I need another coffee. Do they do refills here?”

Danny and Erik questioned Bellva a little while longer, then sent her on her way in a cab. Danny felt sorry for her. She was just a periodic good time for the deceased Mr. Baker, though she'd deluded herself into thinking that she meant more. One thing for sure, she was no killer.

“How long you give her?” Erik asked Danny.

“Another few months or so,” said Danny casually. “If she don't OD, she'll get caught up in some bad shit and get killed. Sad thing. She's a damned good speller.”

They walked to their cars and saw the dealers come out of the restaurant talking into cell phones.
They climbed into a black Cadillac Escalade and roared off.

“I give them until next week,” said Danny. “So, tell me about the Castle group.”

“Not much to tell,” said Erik. “Back in the forties and fifties in Detroit, there was a group of black people called the Castle Society. They were elite blacks—doctors, lawyers, morticians. My grandmother used to tell stories about it all the time. It kinda of phased out because they used to exclude people on the basis of skin color…holy shit.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” said Danny. “So what happened to this group?” asked Danny.

“The Castle was frowned upon as blacks of all skin colors rose to power in the sixties. There's a story that it got so bad once that Dr. King himself had to issue an order to stop the infighting.”

“These are the same kind of people who have been dying,” Danny pointed out.

Erik and Danny said good-bye, promising to sort it all out tomorrow. Danny went home and called Fiona and was told rather angrily not to bother her, that all would be revealed when she was ready. Fiona didn't just work a case, she took possession of it and there was no use in arguing with her.

Danny got a beer and turned on some loud, thumping music by Eminem. He thought vaguely about his first day of school at Davison Elementary. He recalled the sea of black faces and the
strange looks he got. Looks that asked, “what are you and what are you doing here, here where you don't belong?” He wondered if Eminem caught a lot of shit for being white and performing rap music.

As the driving beat thundered into his head, he tried to relax and not think about the killer, or Vinny, who had made another clean and graceful exit from their home.

Danny caught sight of a family picture from 1981 on his mantel. He was there with his mother and father. They all looked happy and peaceful in the bright sunshine. Soon, he fell asleep, his mind covered in peaceful darkness. Then he dreamed again of his mother's awful death. He woke up in fright and never got back to sleep.

The Bady brothers had broken into the office of the Oasis Halfway House with ease. For a place that dealt with criminals, it didn't take many precautions against theft.

It was probably some of that honor-system rehabilitation shit, thought Muhammad. The system was full of that kind of silly, human nature crap. He remembered the people who made those kinds of rules, pie-in-the-sky-type assholes who believed if they thought good thoughts they could turn shit into gold.

The brothers had waited for several hours on Eight Mile just west of Gratiot. Muhammad had sat on a bus bench and watched hundreds of people roar by in their cars. He was particularly watchful of families in their big SUVs and dumbass station wagons. But he was not angry or envious. He had his family, too. It was just a different kind of family. They were devoid of lies, hypocrisy,
and secrets. Instead they lived on respect, truth, and yes, even love.

When it was dark out, Muhammad and his brothers walked down Eight Mile toward Livernois then onto a side street where the Oasis Halfway House was located. They forced open a window of the place and slipped inside without attracting any attention.

The facility was actually a converted apartment complex. It was a dull gray color and had remnants of what were once colorful borders. Now they were faded memories washed into bleakness by time.

The neighborhood residents had fought against the facility, but had lost. The city needed businesses, any kind of businesses, and so in the end it was commerce that placed the halfway house where it was.

Muhammad rifled through the thick files in an old metal cabinet against the far wall of the front office. He was looking through the B files for his father, to see if he had resided there. This Oasis had to be the place Cameron Cole had talked about.

They had been careful in casing Oasis. It was not too far from the home occupied by the Locke and his men. The word was out on the street that the Locke was looking for the brothers and had offered a generous bounty for any information leading to them. First things first, thought Muhammad. Find their father and kill him. Then they could attend to the man who had tried to kill them.

Rimba went through the office looking for anything portable that could be sold on the street. Akema looked out a window watching for intruders.

“Shit!” said Muhammad. “He ain't here.” Muhammad tossed a file into the air angrily and slammed his fist into the concrete floor. He was not cut out for this, breaking into houses to look for information. He was a bull, not a private eye. Muhammad took what he needed, but in this there was nothing to take. He had to be smart, to think, and sadly that was not his strength.

Muhammad stood up. His brothers looked at him, waiting for him to speak. Muhammad felt the weight of his brothers' stares. He was the leader, the big brother, and he had to be strong. His outburst had probably rattled them. If he was not confident, then what chance did Rimba and Akema have?

Suddenly Muhammad's face brightened. He walked back to the file cabinet and pulled out the last drawer marked
EMPLOYEES
and opened it up.

“He couldn't use a made-up name,” said Muhammad. “They woulda got his fingerprints and found out who he really was. So the only way he coulda been here if he wasn't livin' here was if his ass was workin' here.” Muhammad said this almost to himself as he searched the files. Muhammad scanned the contents of the folders until he found what he'd been searching for. Herman Bady had changed his name by the time he got to Michigan.

Muhammad pulled out the photo that had been taken so many years ago. He had indeed changed.
His face was fuller and he had hair on his face. But he could not change his eyes. Muhammad grew hot as he looked into those cold eyes in the photo, remembering the death and pain he'd brought into their lives.

“There he is,” said Muhammad. “We gonna take this and study everything in it so we can find out where he went—”

They heard a commotion at the door, the jingling of keys and a light flashing. Before they could react, the door was opened and in stepped a security guard. He was a man of about fifty or so. He held a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

“Don't move!” yelled the guard. The light in his hand shook as he trained it on the trio before him.

Muhammad looked at Rimba, who stepped in front of the gun without hesitation. Faintly, Rimba's music could be heard from his stereo.

“You gonna have to kill him,” said Muhammad.

“I will,” said the guard. “Now, all of you put your hands in the air!”

Rimba took a step forward, and the guard cocked the gun. Rimba just looked the man in the eyes, steady, unflinching.

“Something else to kill a man,” said Muhammad. “Especially one who ain't got no gun.”

“Shut up!” yelled the guard.

“Go on and do it,” said Muhammad. “As soon as you shoot him, I'll kill you.”

“I said shut up,” the guard hissed. “I want all of you to put your hands up.”

Rimba moved closer. The guard's flashlight shook even more now. Then the guard took a step back.

At that moment, Rimba leapt at the guard, knocking him down to the floor. Rimba hit the guard in the throat; the man croaked loudly. Akema was then all over the fallen man, grabbing his gun and placing it to the guard's head.

“Stop,” said Muhammad. He walked over to the threesome. He looked at the guard coldly, then took the gun from Akema. “It takes a lot to kill a man,” he said to the guard.

“Please,” begged the guard. “Take whatever you want, I won't say anything.”

“We got what we wanted,” said Muhammad.

Muhammad pointed the gun at the man, who had turned into a frightened child. Muhammad had seen that look many times, too many to remember them all. When the guard's eyes calmed, when he'd accepted that he would die, Muhammad turned to his brothers.

“We'll make too much noise if we shoot him,” said Muhammad.

Rimba tugged off the guard's belt, wrapped it around his neck, and pulled it tight. The guard struggled, but Rimba held on fast until the man stopped kicking. Muhammad was not taking any chance that someone would find out what he was up to.

Muhammad pulled out a can of lighter fluid and set fire to all of the files. He couldn't let anyone know which file he'd taken. He was planning a family reunion and he wanted it to be a surprise.

As the flames rose, Muhammad and his brothers looked at the picture of their father. The firelight bounced eerie light off the glossy photo. Akema and Rimba stared at the visage with awe and anger. Muhammad's plan was to make their father suffer before killing him. Now that he'd seen his face, he knew in his heart that it would be a very difficult thing to do.