JEROME LOOKED AT HIS STREET-MARKET ROLEX.
It was 8:15 P.M., fluorescent lights on in the squad room: Jerome sipping on a can of Pepsi-Cola in a swivel chair Delsa had brought over to put next to his desk, Delsa reading what he said was Jerome’s LEIN report. They were the only ones in the room. Jerome tried to figure out what LEIN meant and finally had to ask.
“Law Enforcement Information Network,” Delsa said.
“I’m in there?”
“Anybody commits a crime.”
“What they have me doing?”
“Possession with intent.”
“Was only dank. I never had any intention to sell it. Was the judge wouldn’t believe it was for my own smoking pleasure.”
“How much did you have?”
“Four hundred pounds. Got me thirty months in Milan, man.”
He thought the detective would start talking about prison now, asking did he want to go back, waste his life inside. Preach at him. No, that seemed to be it. Now he was looking for something on his desk. Having trouble finding it, all the shit piled there. One thing about him, he never yelled, never got in your face and screamed at you, like some of those old-time white dicks still around. Jerome swiveled in his chair away from Delsa and pushed up.
He said, “You got all white fellas in here?”
Delsa looked up at Jerome, standing now.
“We had eight in the squad, five black, three white. Three of the eight women, but now we’re down, shorthanded.”
“You the boss, you sit at the front desk?”
“Acting head. The lieutenant’s in the army reserve. He’s over in Iraq.”
He had always a quiet tone of voice, answered your questions. It gave Jerome the feeling you could talk to him. Jerome believed he was Italian, dark eyes that were kinda sad, dark hair that looked like he combed with his fingers. What he should do, have it straightened some and slick it back with a dressing, give it a shine. The blue shirt and tie could pass, if it’s what you had to wear working here. The man didn’t have much size to him—was stringy, but could have been an athlete at one time. Or he ran and did that weight shit, like in the yard at Milan.
Jerome looked around the room, took a few shuffle steps and paused. When he wasn’t told to sit down he began to stroll, checking out the shit on the desks:
Case files, witness statements, preliminary complaint reports—Jerome reading titles on the sheets—scene investigation and Medical Examiner reports, M.E. proof sheets of gunshot wounds—six in the back of the head, Jesus Christ, exit wounds in the man’s cheek—Polaroids of a woman lying in the weeds, phones, computers, directories, mug shots and coffee mugs. Four desks on one side of the room, two pair butted together, three on the other side. The one Delsa sat at faced down the aisle between them to a door that was open and what looked like a walk-in closet inside, painted pink.
Why would they have a pink room in here?
Why would they have a fish with big ugly lips in a tank on top a file cabinet? The fish looking at him.
A printed sheet with a fancy border of flowers, taped to the side of the cabinet—you had to get close to read—said:
TOO OFTEN WE LOSE SIGHT OF LIFE’S SIMPLE PLEASURES. REMEMBER, WHEN SOMEONE ANNOYS YOU IT TAKES 42 MUSCLES IN YOUR FACE TO FROWN. BUT IT ONLY TAKES 4 MUSCLES TO EXTEND YOUR ARM AND BITCH-SLAP THE MOTHERFUCKER UPSIDE THE HEAD.
Delsa said, “Jerome? You have an idea what happened to the gun?”
He watched Jerome in his green and red Tommy jacket and black do-rag, blousy cargo pants sweeping the floor, turn and come back to the chair next to the desk.
Jerome said, “What gun you mean?” sitting down again.
“Tyrell’s, the murder weapon.”
“How would I know?”
Jerome swiveling the chair back and forth now in slow motion.
“You said he pulled a nine.”
“I could be mistaken.”
“Jerome, don’t bail out on me. I swear you won’t have to testify. Nothing you tell me leaves this room.”
“Was a Beretta, the one holds fifteen loads.”
Delsa said, “Your girlfriend’s name is Nashelle Pierson?”
“That’s right.”
“She has a half-brother named Reggie Banks?”
Jerome hesitated. “Yeah …?”
“And Reggie, who works at the Mack Avenue Diner with Tyrell, is a homey of yours?”
“How you know that?”
“I ride the block and talk to people. Who’s this Jerome Juwan Jackson I hear about? Has style, tight rims on his car. A girl sitting on her front steps says, ‘Oh, you mean Three-J? Yeah, lives in the house down the block, in the house has boards over the windows. Protect him from dudes shooting at him.’”
“Uh-unh, the windows already busted when I moved in.”
“Rent free,” Delsa said, “looking after the house for, I believe, your uncle doing time?”
“How you know that? Me and him have different names.”
“I told you, I talk to people. Most of ‘em want to help us, Jerome. I mean ordinary people, not just paid informants. Nobody wants a crack house on their block. Hear gunfire in the night. See innocent children, babies, killed in drive-bys. You know how many times in a drive-by they get the wrong house? You see a car cruise past a couple of times? Now here it comes back? What do you do?”
“Hit the floor, man.” Jerome grinned. He said, “Tell me something. How much these paid informants get paid?”
“Depends on how good the information is. We get tips all the time. A guy has a grudge, wants to pay somebody back and names him as a perp. Guy writes from jail. ‘Get me out of here and I’ll give you the guy did Bobo.’ It’s our junk mail. The pay for information we need comes out of what’s called Crime Stoppers. It’s a program.”
“What I want to know,” Jerome said, “is how much that comes to.”
“A reward’s offered, you’re into big money. I know of a C.I. who identified the guy who raped and murdered a teenage girl, and collected ten thousand. Crime Stoppers pays a grand for information leading to an arrest.”
“Is that right?” Jerome said. “What’s this C.I.?”
“Confidential Informant—and when I say confidential, I mean we won’t even reveal a C.I.’s name in a court of law.”
“I’m getting paid for giving up Tyrell?”
“That one’s different, since we have a few more eyeball witnesses and you’re not gonna testify. But we have other cases, Jerome, you might be of help with. We’ve got one, three Mexicanos shot in the back of the head, one of ‘em dismembered with a chain saw.”
“Cool,” Jerome said.
“You don’t care for Mexicans?”
“Motherfuckers say they gonna deliver? They gonna rip you off and shoot you they get the chance.”
“We’re looking for a guy named Orlando,” Delsa said, “we think could give us some information.”
“I mighta heard the name’s all.”
“Had a place off Michigan Avenue, behind the old ballpark.”
Jerome said, “Yeah, Orlando,” nodding his head.
“Also, I mentioned Nashelle’s half-brother Reggie Banks? We got a tip he dumped Tyrell’s gun for him.”
Delsa waited.
“Yeah …?”
“And you might know something about it.”
“You didn’t get that from Nashelle.”
“It was another detective talked to some girl who knows Reggie. I don’t have her statement in front of me, but it’s in the case file.”
“She say I was with him?”
“I don’t know, but if you have something to tell me, it comes under what we’ve been talking about, confidential information.”
Jerome said, “Lemme think on it.”
Delsa said, “You got ten minutes.” He brought a pack of Newports from his desk drawer and offered one to his C.I.
Jerome said, “I thought this was a no-smoking building.”
Delsa said, “Only if you get cau
ght.”
5
AS SOON AS THEY WERE IN THE CAR, STILL IN FRONT of the loft, the guy turned to them in the backseat. He gave her kind of an impatient look, mad, and said to Chloe, “How come nobody let me know?”
Sounding like it was her fault.
Chloe said, “What’re you talking about?”
Montez didn’t answer. He was a terrible driver, changing lanes in the East Jefferson traffic as he made a call on his cell, Chloe telling him, “Will you watch the fucking road? Jesus.” When he didn’t get an answer to his call he said, “Fuck,” and dropped the phone on the seat next to him.
Behind him in the dark Kelly leaned close to Chloe and said, “You think he’s cool, huh?”
Chloe raised her voice saying, “Montez? What’s wrong?”
Kelly saw him look at the rearview mirror. He said, “Don’t bother your head,” and was quiet after that, but kept glancing at them in the mirror.
They arrived at the house, lights shining on its gray stone from the shrubs. Montez stopped in the circular drive and asked Chloe how long she thought they’d be.
“It’s up to Tony,” Chloe said. “You know that.”
Montez said, “See if you can cut your bullshit cheerleading short this evening.”
As soon as they were inside Chloe brought Kelly through a hallway to the living room and introduced her to Mr. Paradiso, the old man seated in his chair that was like a cushy love seat facing a TV console. He said, “So you’re Kelly,” smiling at her but didn’t get up. Kelly had to lean in to kiss his cheek and felt his liver-spotted hand slip into her coat to close on her breast, the left one, inside a cotton sweatshirt. As she straightened he said, “What’re you wearing that sweater for?”
“I have a cold,” Kelly said. “But, hey, it’s from the University of Michigan,” gave him a darling smile and said, “go blue.”
Chloe sat on his rickety lap to kiss him on the mouth and he slipped both hands into her coat saying, “Here my little cheerleaders.”
“If you’re a good boy,” Chloe said to him, “I’ll let you paint my M on.” She brought a blue Magic Marker out of her coat and put it in his hand. “Want to?”
Kelly thinking, I’m gonna be sick.
She was aware of Montez hanging back, not saying anything to the old man. Lloyd the houseman appeared, took their drink order and Montez followed him out of the room. He was back in a few minutes opening a bottle of Christiania vodka; he freshened the old man’s drink and left the bottle in the ice bucket, on a table close by. Now he seemed to wander around, antsy. Kelly watched him go through the hallway to the foyer and stand by the front double doors with their etched-glass panels, pale rose in the dark wood.
Mr. Paradise said, “There,” as he finished applying Chloe’s M, a crude letter below her perfect breasts. He turned his head and Kelly saw he was looking toward Montez in the foyer, Montez returning now to the living room.
The old man said, “The hell you doing skulking around?”
Montez gave him a dumb look, surprised, said, “Nothing,” and held up empty hands.
Chloe said, “He’s pissed he had to pick us up.”
The old man said, “No, no, it takes more than that to get under Mr. Montez Taylor’s skin. He has a great capacity for taking shit, knows how to accept it and grin. But I did find his pissed-off threshold. I was gonna give him this house, help him with his social acceptability. I don’t mean it as a racial thing, Indian Village is half colored anyway. No, what I’m saying is Mr. Taylor could put on the dog and be accepted as a colorful character—no pun intended. But, can he earn a living once I’m gone? Pay the taxes? Keep the place up? I realized the obligation would be too much for him. He’d sell the house and spend the money on having a good time. So my granddaughter Allegra will get it. Live here or sell the property and put her kids through college. I told Mr. Taylor I’d changed my mind, then watched his chagrin rise and boil over when I told him he’d be taken care of by my son Tony. Now Mr. Taylor was so pissed off he insults me by insulting my son.”
Chloe said, “Oh, it can’t be that bad. You know yourself Tony Jr.’s not”—she hesitated, the old guy staring at her—“well, not as congenial as you are.”
He said, “You’re close to getting in trouble yourself,” and moved his gaze to Montez. “You deny it?”
Montez said, “Deny what?”
And Kelly had to look at him; he sounded different, at ease now, in no hurry.
“That you insulted my son.”
“You insult me in your own way,” Montez said, “and it’s okay. Calling me Mr. Taylor. Meaning I’m uppity, have no business saying anything against your boy. Meaning I can’t say anything to you one man to another.”
Still with the quiet tone, in no hurry.
“Like you said to me this evening you’re watching your show. You said I forget who I am. Meaning, my place. Like I had talked back to you.”
Kelly watched, surprised he could be so calm giving it back to his boss. She heard the old man say, “Montez,” and turned to see Mr. Paradiso raise his hand to wave Montez off, like telling him to forget it.
“Okay, let’s say we were both pissed off—and I’m not supposed to let anything bother me, doctor’s orders. I know who you are, you’re my number one, Montez, my walking-around guy. Okay?”
He let it hang there until Chloe said, “And you’re our Mr. Paradise.”
•
Lloyd brought them alexanders in crystal lowball glasses they took upstairs with their coats and handbags. They’d have a cigarette and a drink while they fooled with their makeup, did something with their eyes. Chloe led the way to a bedroom. They put their coats on the bed and went in the bathroom and looked at themselves in the mirror, Kelly saying, “‘And you’re our Mr. Paradise.’” She leaned over the sink and poked a finger into her open mouth a few times.
“It’s what you do,” Chloe said, “you’re a mistress.”
“What do you think Montez said to him?”
“He probably called Tony Jr. an asshole. You’re keeping the sweatshirt on?”
An extra-large that Chloe loaned her and hung below her cute skirt.
“If it was just the old guy I might take it off. I’m not showing my tits to the help.”
“Because they’re colored guys?”
“I went with a black guy once, a professor at Wayne, an intellectual type. He really was, but he said ‘You understand what I’m saying?’ about every other sentence. I think to let me know he was street before he got educated, knows wazzup.”
Chloe said, “I’ve usually had a good time with colored guys. When they’re cool they’re really cool. Like Montez, the way he gave it back. That was cool.”
“Yeah, well, I broke up with my black guy, he was so fucking boring. I said, ‘Look, just assume I understand what you’re saying. If I don’t, I’ll tell you.’ And, yes, I’m wearing the sweatshirt.”
“It’s way too big for you.”
“So?”
•
The old man didn’t seem to mind the sweatshirt, since it was from U of M. He said he liked it when they jumped up in the air. They did the stupid cheers, “We’re the girls from Mich-i-gan …” and acted nasty in cute ways.
Montez wasn’t around for the show. He said he’d be in the kitchen, said he hadn’t eaten and was hungry. That was all he did say after the row with the old man. “I’ll be in the kitchen, Mr. Paradiso.”
Kelly caught it but didn’t think it registered on the old man. Montez was Montez and Mr. Paradiso was not Mr. Paradise. They had left their unfinished alexanders upstairs. Lloyd brought them each another and the old man said, “Tell Montez to get out here.”
Kelly watched him come through the dining room still wearing his gray suit, his eyebrows raised to the boss, not speaking, but this way asking what the man wanted, sitting there on his throne with a vodka on the rocks.
Kelly imagining the way Montez saw him.
Mr. Paradiso said, “You don’t th
ink I treat you fairly. All right, give me a coin, a quarter.”
Montez brought change out of his pants pocket, found a quarter and gave it to the man.
“What I’m gonna do, Montez, my number one, I’m gonna share my ladies with you. I don’t want to show favoritism, so I’m flipping the coin. Heads, Chloe goes upstairs and you have a party on me. Tails, and I mean a nine-hundred-dollar piece of tail, Montez, you get Kelly here. How’s that sound to everybody?”
6
TEN TO ELEVEN DELSA WALKED IN THE SQUAD room taking off his duffle coat, the kind with the hood and wooden toggles, the coat, the turtleneck and blazer a deep navy blue.
Harris said, “You’re back?”
“You see me,” Delsa said.
Jackie Michaels was playing slot machines on her computer, the calliope ding-dong sound turned low. Jackie had the 8:00 P.M. to 4:00 A.M. She looked at Delsa taking off his blazer with the duffle and hanging them on the rack.
“Richard said you went home.”
“I did, I had something to eat.”
Richard Harris, forty-four, cool mustache, gold cuff links, a white girlfriend named Dawn who hustled drinks at the Greektown Casino; Harris a year with Squad Seven after a few years of patrol and a few more on the Violent Crimes Task Force, was looking at the Love Swing instructions book. He said to Delsa, “Can’t stay away, huh?”
Jackie knew better. Frank’s problem was staying home. Walk in the house and get the TV on fast. Until a couple of months ago Maureen’s clothes were still in her closet and chifforobe. He mentioned it at the Christmas party, Frank half in the bag but still quiet telling her. Jackie’s advice, get rid of the clothes, everything; she’d help him if he wanted. St. Vincent de Paul shoppers were wearing Maureen’s clothes now, and Delsa was practically living in the squad room: the man sounding the same as always but buried in police work from morning into the night, glad to have the paperwork.
At his desk now he said, “You want to know what happened to Tyrell’s gun?”
“It’s in the river,” Harris said, “or it’s in pieces all over the city of Detroit.”
“My man Jerome,” Delsa said, “drove the guy who got rid of it for Tyrell. Reggie Banks, they call T-Bone, half-brother of Jerome’s girlfriend, Nashelle. Sunday, the night after Yakity’s, Reggie wants to cruise Belle Isle. Jerome says, ‘Man, it’s freezing cold,’ but lets Reggie talk him into it, Jerome suspecting what the trip’s for. So they go over and cruise Belle Isle, Jerome with his sounds turned up, all that heavy bass chugging out of the car—”