Team Mom (12 page)

Coach wanted to look into Mac's claims. It definitely sounded like some entitlement immorality was popping off. He drove the two blocks over to the check-cashing center. He parked in a wide parking lot, in between two cars so that he wouldn't be seen. Coach had always detested these downtrodden places. Made the whole neighborhood look like a dump or like a cheese line, which he knew too much about while growing up. It could at least look like a place of business. Coach could go to the other side of town and never see one of these oppressive places. It looked like a shack and blended in nicely with all the other demoralizing businesses in the hood. Car-rim huts, nail salons, hair salons, and horrid package stores with the nervous bootleg video salesman peeking around the corner, whispering, “Hey, bruh.”

Once he was looking inside his target from his spot in the parking lot, he realized how nice the triple-tinted windows were on his car. No sun could get in, and no one could see in. As far as he could see through the shop window, there were a few people in line, with their backs to him. And he could just make out a white man behind the counter. Coach thought about going into the joint and just turning it upside down, but he knew he needed to be patient. After about thirty minutes or so he had watched a few people go in, come out, and just continue on their way without incident.

After about forty-five minutes things slowed down a bit. Coach was about to call it a wrap, but then a black Impala pulled up and two black males who looked to be in their twenties came out the door, quickly got in the car, and drove off. Coach hadn't seen them go in the joint and figured they'd been inside all this time. A few minutes later, just as Coach was going to follow the Impala, an older white man flipped a sign that said
OUT TO LUNCH
on the inside of the door to the place, came out, locked the door, walked to his car, an old black Volvo station wagon, and then drove off.

Coach decided to follow him instead. After about four minutes Coach turned on the blaring siren and the flashers on his car and pulled the man over to the side of the road. When he was approaching the man's vehicle, Coach could see him looking in his rearview mirror, and that was when he realized the white man had a gray goatee and red hair. Coach stood still as the man rolled down his window.

“I'm confused. You're not street police,” the man said.

Coach waited a few beats to answer him because he had to take a look in the backseat. He noticed newspapers, magazines, and a dog chain there. On the passenger seat up front he saw a money bag. “No need for the confusion. You're right,” Coach said.

The driver said, “So, what do you want?” His words rushed out, and he looked ahead at the road instead of at Coach.

Coach said, “We'll get to that in a minute. What's your name?”

He said, “Harry. You know what? Fuck this.... Can I see your ID?” Harry still hadn't looked Coach in the eye. He just put his hand out the window, waiting for Coach to give him the ID.

Coach smiled and gave him five and said, “Show me yours first, Harry.”

Harry didn't like it, and the frown on his face told Coach as much. Harry dug into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, withdrew his license, and let Coach see it.

Coach had said, “Harry Henry, huh? McDonough, Georgia . . . sixty-six years old and five feet four.” Coach gave him an investigative look. “It says your hair is gray, Harry?”

Harry finally looked at Coach. Then he ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, this. My teenage daughters thought I would be cool with the red hair,” he told Coach.

Coach said, “I see.”

Harry's tone changed. “I still haven't seen your ID, bud.”

Coach took out his ID, flashed it at Harry, and without hesitation pushed himself up against Harry's door, getting up close and personal. “Look, asshole. I know you got thugs in your place of business, robbing people right in front of you.”

Harry's eyes widened, but he didn't say a word.

Coach told him, “Don't tell me you don't, because I have a witness who says you do.”

This guy Harry was quick to offer up some details. “Look, okay, I didn't set this up. These guys are ruthless. They came to me with this. I mean, I know it's wrong, but nobody's complained yet.”

“Are you kidding me, Harry?” Coach said.

“What'd I say?”

Coach said, “I should take you in right now.” Coach noticed Harry grab the steering wheel. Coach said, “Take the keys out of the ignition and put them on the seat.”

Harry removed the keys and placed them on the money bag.

“So, tell me, how do these guys take this money without anyone going to the police?”

Harry said, “They're probably scared, and the fact that they tell them that they will kill their whole family . . .”

“Just a threat, huh?”

“That's all it takes. It's like they have some type of reputation that scares people,” he said. “I don't know and I don't ask.”

“How much do you get out of this?”

“I get to live, damn it. Look, I'm too old for prison. I have daughters, no mother. All I do is what they tell me. When they are inside with me and a customer cashes a check, they take it all.”

Coach waited for a few cars to pass them. “Names? You have names for me? Whose car did they jump in, and where are they going?”

“Man, you're going to get me killed.”

“Rather die in prison?”

“Vernon and Mark, real mean assholes,” he said. “I don't know who picked them up or where they are going, and I could care less.”

“Guns on them?”

“Haven't seen any. They usually slap people around if they talk back. But to be so bold, I would guess, yeah, they do. The guy Vernon, he's the mean one. He takes the money, puts it in his pocket, and doesn't count it until he leaves.”

“Where can I find them?”

“I don't know. They never say. All they ever tell me is when they're coming back.”

Coach didn't take his eyes off of Harry, because he had a feeling he was lying.

“Later today,” Harry told him. “They said they would be back later.”

The scumbags that Coach saw drive away from Harry's place of business—Vernon, Mark, and Chucky—were all sitting in the Impala across from a bank. Chucky was at the wheel, and they were all quiet, waiting and watching.

Chucky said, “So what are we waiting for outside this bank?”

Vernon was in the backseat. He said, “We're going to rob it.”

Mark smiled.

“Bull . . . shit,” Chucky said. “Fuck you and that.”

Mark was in the front with Chucky, and he began to laugh with Vernon.

Chucky said, “I'm serious. Why did you have me pick you up and drive out here?”

“'Cause I did,” Vernon said. “What? You have another interview or some craziness like that?”

“Oh, yeah . . . did you get the job or what?” Mark asked.

Chucky thought about his question and looked out the window, in a daze. “Nah.” But he knew these two were messing with him and didn't care if he did or not.

Vernon and Mark laughed again.

Vernon said, “Tried to tell your ass. They are not hiring black men these days. Don't you know the unemployment rate has never been higher for a black man?”

Mark said, “I can't lie. You did try to tell him.”

“Man . . . forget y'all,” Chucky mumbled.

Vernon said, “Don't worry about it, though. We 'bout to get paid.”

“Damn right,” Mark said.

“Doing what? Hey, man, don't have me out here, and you're about to do something stupid,” Chucky said.

Vernon hesitated, then looked at Chucky. “Tell me something. How come when I know a way we can get some money, it's stupid, but your way of getting money is so damn noble?”

“Because it's the right way to do it.”

“Says you. If you must know, we're sitting here because I want to make sure this is Harry's bank,” Vernon said.

Chucky said, “Who the hell is Harry?”

“The old dude who has the spot we just came from,” Mark said.

“I want to make sure this is his bank because if it is, he's going to be writing me a check for everything in his account,” Vernon said. “He practically runs a bank, so he has to have money.”

“And what would make you think he would just give you a check?” Chucky said.

Vernon pulled out a pistol and moved closer to the front seat and showed it to Chucky.

Chucky hated messing around with these two so much. He looked around and made sure they couldn't be seen. “Hey, put that up. Out here in my car, carrying pistols and whatnot. Don't you know that's a mandatory ten years in the state?”

Mark said, “Well, you better not tell anybody.”

Mark and Vernon were enjoying their comic show.

Vernon said, “Mark, keep an eye out for his car. Knowing Harry, he's going to walk that money bag in there himself. Such a stingy man.”

“Look, I don't appreciate this shit, man. You called me to give you a ride home. Not this shit,” Chucky said.

“Too bad. We're here now,” Vernon said.

Chucky said, “Forget this. I'm leaving. Got guns and shit in my car.”

“No, you're not,” Vernon said.

Chucky didn't give a care about what Vernon said. He started his car.

Mark pointed to the bank. “Look, there he is, walking it in.”

“Just like I thought. Let's go,” Vernon said.

Coach warned Harry that if he told Vernon or Mark that he had spoken to him, Coach would put him in jail for the rest of his life. He told him he would also close up his irritating shop, which kept the people in the community in a bind. Coach took down Harry's number and let him go to lunch and deposit his money bag. Coach didn't know what his plan was right off, but he knew that since these guys were bold enough to just take hard-earned cash right out the hands of people, then they might know who was behind the assault of Lois, which was his most pressing piece of business.

As Coach waited for Vernon and Mark to return to the shop, he made three phone calls. One to Shonda, one to Mr. Tall, and one to Calvin. The call to Calvin concerned practice and the practice plan. Coach said that the team looked out of shape, and at practice he wanted to run them up and down the field in a no-huddle offense to work on plays and conditioning at the same time. Calvin said that he agreed but wanted to make sure his defense was on the field too, because he knew the team they were playing next ran the exact offense from time to time.

The phone call to Mr. Tall was to check in and see how Lois was doing. Mr. Tall hadn't been home yet, and Coach was still going back and forth to his home, turning the porch light off and on and getting Mr. Tall some clothes too. Mr. Tall said that Lois was getting stronger than ever and was poised to make a full recovery. There was a message on his phone too. It was from Shonda. She wanted to make sure Coach was staying the night again. When Coach called her back, he had to leave a message telling her that he would.

Coach spent the entire afternoon sitting in the parking lot, looking over at the check-cashing enterprise. Around five o'clock the traffic began to pick up on the street. Coach had only an hour before he needed to be at practice. He called Harry, who was inside the shop. Harry let him know that he was closing up shop in five minutes and that the hard ankles that had commandeered his shop had not been in contact with him. No sooner than Coach had put down his phone and prepared to start up the Chevy he noticed the black Impala pull up. One of the guys who he'd seen around lunchtime jumped out and went in to see Harry. The Impala took off as soon as he shut the door.

Coach had planned to take both assholes downtown to question them once he saw them again. But only one went into the shop. He would have to do for now. Coach was antsy. He'd grown tired of waiting for these bums to show up again. He decided without any deliberation that he was going in. He pulled out his Glock nine millimeter and made sure it was fully loaded. He took a deep breath, which had always been his routine when danger was in his path, and looked up into the sky, drawing the sign of the cross on his chest for divine protection. He put his handcuffs at the ready position. Coach had on a hoodie under his leather jacket, and for shits and grins, he pulled the hood of the hoodie over his head, then checked himself out in the rearview mirror before he took the short walk to the shop.

The punk inside was talking to Harry across the counter when Coach walked in. A fucking bell rang when Coach opened the door, as if he was in some sort of freaking grocery mart.

The sound made Harry and his friend look at him, wondering what he wanted. Without any hesitation at all Coach took out his cuffs, and before Harry or his friend could say one word, Coach simultaneously yelled, “Police!” slammed the cuffs on one wrist of his target, pushed his face into the countertop, and then put on the second bracelet, squeezing it nice and tight, over the sound of a bitch-ass scream.

Coach needed to unwind after the arrest. After he locked the bracelets on the dog dump who happened to be Vernon and threw him in the car, then placed him in a cell down at the station, he searched for a release. His competitive juices and energy were flowing. So he went head-to-head with Calvin, offense against defense, for the entire practice. After they dismissed the team, Calvin noticed that Coach had a sharp eye on Jarques and Shonda as they walked to the car.

Calvin cleared his throat. “J sure is coming into his own.”

Coach turned in Calvin's direction. “Yeah, man, he's getting stronger by the day.”

“Looks like this is one of those times when a kid is going to excel when Coach and Mommy get together,” Calvin said.

Coach said, “See, right now, I don't know if you're being sarcastic or what.”

Calvin smiled. “A little bit, man. You know I have to rub your nose in it after all the bashing you gave me over the years. So everything good?”

“So far,” Coach said.

“I can see that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just seem more relaxed, man, when she's around. Seems like you are beginning to let go and continue to live your life.” Calvin was fully aware of Coach's loss.

Coach didn't respond, just thought about his friend's words.

Calvin said, “Not to say I would have done it any quicker or even at all. Just saying that you have and I'm glad to see it, brother, and I mean that.”

“Thanks.”

“So, tell me, what are her friends like? A woman like that must run around in a pack of like minds.”

“What?”

“Her friends, Coach. When are you going to have a party or something so you can hook a brother up?”

“Hook a brother up?”

“That's right.”

“I don't know, Calvin. But when we do, I will make sure you get that invite, okay?”

 

 

After a quick shower at his place and a brief look at the mail, Coach was back at the station, walking through the hall, on his way to question the man who he now knew as Vernon Wise, a twenty-three-year-old transplant from Newark, New Jersey. Coach had called ahead to have him placed in the interrogation room. Right before Coach went in, the watch commander called out to him.

“Finally got him off chill mode, I see.”

Coach said, “Yeah. I'm going in now. I don't know if he has anything to do with the assault on Lois Gregory, but I know for damn sure he's been robbing people inside the check-cashing joint.”

“Deal making?” the watch commander asked.

“If I have to,” Coach said.

“You know, I haven't had a bite of one of these in quite some time, brother in-law.”

Coach smiled, then said, “Have some?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

The two walked in together, and it took Vernon exactly two seconds after the interrogation room door was shut to confirm to them what kind of a dirtbag he was.

“You motherfuckers just better turn around, go open the front door, and get ready to watch me walk outta here, because I'm not telling you shit.” Vernon's hands were handcuffed to the table, and they could see that he was trying in vain to get comfortable in his chair.

Coach said, “Vernon? Vernon . . .Vernon. I bet your mama didn't plan on having you end up in here with a name like Vernon, now did she?”

The watch commander added, “I wouldn't think so. He's not rough enough for this, you son of a bitch.”

“Oh, he's not rough. That's why he beats up on old ladies,” Coach said. “He's a punk from New Jersey too.”

“Yeah, okay. Now I get your drift,” the watch commander said. “Yeah, that's a bitch-ass move to beat up an old lady. I'll say this, though. They really like those who participate in bitch-ass moves in state lockup. Hell, even downstairs,” he noted.

Vernon sat up in his seat. “Look, I don't know nothing about whatever you're talking about. I do know you ain't got nothing on me and you better let me outta here.”

Coach had already sat in the chair across from Vernon, but he stood up from the chair, and as it hit the floor, he was in Vernon's face. “Or what? Or what, gotdamn it? What are you going to do, Vernon, if I don't let you out?”

Vernon looked over at the watch commander. “Yo, man, you better come get your boy.”

The watch commander very quietly said, “Or what, Vernon?”

Coach didn't back down. “Little different now, huh, Vernon? Bet if I was an old lady, you would hit me, wouldn't you?”

“Yo, man, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Lois Gregory, that's who I'm talking about. The lady that you beat and left for dead.”

Vernon said, “Hey, look here. I didn't beat anybody. Oh, hell no.”

The watch commander said, “Where were you on the seventh of this month?”

“Don't matter where I was. I can tell you this. I wasn't nowhere near an old woman. You got me twisted, yo.”

Coach walked away from him. “Well, if you can't tell me where you were, shit . . . you're going to be up in here for a long time.”

“And we got plenty of room,” the watch commander added.

Vernon looked around, as if weighing his options. “Look, I was probably out doing what I do.”

“Which is what?” the watch commander said.

“Out, man, riding around. Out.”

Coach was standing with his back to Vernon. “Out plotting, trying to figure out how to take something that doesn't belong to you? Is that what you mean?”

Vernon thought about it for a while. “Well, yeah, that sounds like me. I tell you what, though. I didn't beat up any damn woman, I can tell you that.”

“Do you know who did?” the watch commander asked.

“No, hell no, man.”

Coach turned around and looked at Vernon more closely. “Wait a minute. I know you.”

“You don't know me,” Vernon told him.

Coach picked his chair up off the floor. He sat down across from Vernon. “Yeah . . . I do know you.” Coach pointed at him. “You're that slimeball, son of a bitch nut that was kicked out of Stonecrest Park because you and hundreds of others were betting on the youth football games.”

Vernon didn't deny or confirm Coach's assertion. He just stared at Coach, as if he was trying to place him.

Coach looked at his watch commander. “This guy has no shame in his game and will do anything to make a buck. This broomstick bet on Little League football, and then he got kicked out of the park. Can never return. What you did made national headlines. Had sports news agencies all on your sorry ass.”

Vernon was silent and looked away.

There was a knock on the door of the interrogation room. The watch commander opened it, and he was handed a Polaroid camera. He shut the door and began to fiddle with the camera.

Coach started to mess with Vernon. Blow his head up a bit. This tactic usually worked on punks who wouldn't admit to anything. Made them feel like somebody walked around, talking about their asses like they were running things. Coach said, “Supposedly, everything that happens on this side of town, you know about. I mean, that's what I hear. I thought about that and thought it was all bullshit, though, not only because your name is Vernon, but who would be scared of you, yo? Huh? Tell me.”

“You just have to ask them,” he said.

“Them?”

The watch commander leaned across the table so that he was right in front of Vernon. “Smile, motherfucka.” Then he took a picture with the Polaroid. “Answer the question, Vernon,” he said, pulling the photo out of the camera. “I bet this is going to be one ugly-ass picture. Who is
them,
Vernon?”

Vernon looked at Coach. “The people you're saying are scared of me.”

Coach said, “I'll pass. I don't see anyone being scared of your punk ass myself.”

“What's wrong with you, man?” Vernon muttered.

“I need answers. That's what's wrong with me. People say they are scared of you, and I don't see why. I asked you if you like to beat up old women or know of anyone who does, and you're not telling me shit.”

“No, okay. No, I don't know about any of that.”

“Well, tell me about robbing people inside that trashy check-cashing house.”

“What?”

“Tell me about it. How many you rob?”

“I didn't rob anybody. I was in that place to see how much it would cost to get a check cashed.”

Coach said, “You didn't have a check on you, Vernon.”

“I was asking how much it would cost me because I was going to get a check. Ask the man that works in there. He'll tell you. I never robbed anybody, and you don't have any proof that I did, so let me outta here.”

“I can tell you this, Vernon. You won't be getting out of here anytime soon.”

Vernon said, “Lawyer, then. I want to call a lawyer.”