Читать книгу Suitcase City - Sterling Watson - Страница 12

FIVE

While the boy applied ice to his cheek and the bartender finished his phone report to Malone, the black cop, Aimes, took Teach to a table near the front door. As he told the story and Aimes listened, Teach tried to read the man. All he got was an even temper, a solid self-confidence, and a concern for accuracy. Sometimes the cop challenged Teach. “The boy said, Give up your wallets? You sure that’s what he said?”

Teach said, “I think so. Maybe he just said, Give it up, but we know what that means, don’t we?”

The policeman didn’t nod or write it down. He just looked steadily at Teach and waited for more.

When he could, Teach glanced at McLuster who was telling his version to the thin policeman. The wad of paper towels was gone and the urine stain was fading. Teach would bet the smell was as strong as ever. The poor cop. The things these guys had to do.

The boy, Tyrone Battles, uncuffed now, holding an iced towel to his cheek, sat watching Teach like a boxer waiting to come out of his corner. Talking to Aimes, Teach was beginning to think the boy’s intentions were the least of his problems.

After Aimes made him tell the story a second time, Teach said, “Look, I’ve told you everything I can remember. It happened fast. I was afraid the kid was going to pull the razor. There was no way out except through him, and that’s the way I went. Frankly, I think I saved two lives in there. I don’t know why we have to keep . . .”

The detective raised his eyebrows as Teach unreeled his good-citizen speech, his voice rising with exasperation. Teach stopped talking when he realized he had just said, “I was afraid.” Afraid was a word Teach hadn’t used much. It changed things.

Aimes lowered his gaze, spread his big hands on the table, examined his clean, trimmed fingernails. When he looked at Teach again, his eyes were tired. “Frankly, Mr. Teach, there are two ways to look at this. One is that you just assaulted my sister’s only son who’s an honor student and the star running-back on his high school football team. Frankly, you busted open the face of a nice-looking young man who’s never been in trouble a day in his life. That’s one way.”

Teach closed his eyes and there in the darkness the boy’s surly face leaned into his as it had in a men’s room, and he had to stop himself from shoving past Aimes and out the door. He conquered his temper and calmed his violated sense of fairness and stayed in his chair. He opened his eyes, attempted a smile, and said, “Detective, I’m trying to help you here. I’ve given you all the information I have.” He glanced at his watch and a splash of bright stage lighting burst into his mind. Jesus, the ballet recital. When? Oh Christ, soon. He had to get out of here. The cop had said there were two ways to look at this.

Aimes said, “Mr. Teach, you said there was a razor. Where is it? The boy doesn’t have it on him.”

Teach massaged his eyes, tried to think. “It’s still in there. In the men’s room, I mean. I heard it hit the floor when I . . .”

Aimes looked over at the table where McLuster was unburdening himself to the white cop. “Detective Delbert,” Aimes called in that low, burring baritone, “excuse yourself for a minute there and go into the men’s room and find me the weapon Mr. Teach says he saw.”

Teach glanced at McLuster who watched Detective Delbert walk to the men’s room. He needed McLuster to look at him, give him even the smallest reassurance, but the man only stared bleakly at the place where the trouble had started.

The thin policeman returned from the bathroom, his face composed, something dark and gleaming in his hand. As he came on, Teach thought, He found it.

Detective Delbert put the object on the table between Teach and Aimes, and Teach saw the cops’ eyes meet for an instant in certainty, gravity, and without surprise. And he saw that the shiny black thing on the table was a comb. Teach stared at its black plastic handle, his eyes straining to turn it into what he was sure he had seen. The cop’s low, musical voice said, “That’s not a razor, Mr. Teach. It’s what the kids call a pick.”

Teach searched the man’s obsidian eyes, hoping to find some favor in them for the mistake he had made when he’d had only seconds to make anything at all. Aimes rose and walked across the bar to the table where McLuster and Delbert sat. When Aimes put his hand on Delbert’s shoulder, Teach thought: That hand holds the power of the state. That hand takes away a man’s belt and shoelaces, handcuffs him, and leads him out of a courtroom to a holding cell, and from there to some godforsaken, sun-hammered prison where he eats beans and collards and waits for his time on the exercise yard, and watches, if he’s lucky, television programs that appeal to morons. Teach knew where a man went when that hand touched him.

The two cops moved to the bar and stood there talking. McLuster looked everywhere but at Teach, and Tyrone Battles held the bloody towel to his cheek.

When Aimes and Delbert finished, the white cop went back to sit with McLuster. Aimes approached Teach. “Mr. Teach, my colleague, Detective Delbert, tells me that Mr. McLuster over there says you just lost it in that men’s room. He doesn’t know why. A big overreaction thing is what he calls it.”

Teach blinked, could think of nothing to say. Knew what his face must look like: some comic cartoon goof staring down in disbelief as the cliff crumbles under his feet and he begins the fall, thousands of feet to the canyon bottom. He shook his head, lifted a hand to massage his forehead. The bourbon, the wonderful, convivial bourbon, had left him with a hammering headache. He heard himself saying, “Jesus, I swear to you, I . . .” And then he knew he wasn’t saying it. Was only thinking it and was glad he had kept his mouth shut.

Aimes went over to the table where McLuster sat with Delbert. He directed them to the table where the boy sat and said, “Mr. Teach . . .” and nodded at the only vacant chair.

Like a child summoned to the front of the classroom, Teach walked over and sat with them. The boy stared at him with the bleakest hatred Teach had ever seen.

Aimes cleared his throat. “I don’t know what happened in there. Only you three know, and you all tell it differently. Tyrone . . .”

Teach watched closely as the two regarded each other. Would he see the family bond in their eyes? A recognition: that was all Teach could see.

“Tyrone,” Aimes said, “if I take your word for what happened, I can arrest Mr. Teach here for assault.”

The boy started to speak, his eyes fulminating. Aimes put his hand on Tyrone’s forearm. That power again.

“Mr. Teach,” Aimes said, “if I take your word, I can arrest Tyrone for attempted robbery, take him away with me.”

Teach tried not to let his eyes say what they preferred. Let this play itself out.

Aimes continued, “Mr. McLuster here, he thinks maybe you overreacted, Mr. Teach, but mostly Mr. McLuster just wants to get out of here.” The detective glanced at the fading stains in McLuster’s crotch. McLuster nodded, sucking his lip to the side and biting it. “Soooo . . .” Aimes exhaled a long breath and looked at each of them in turn, his eyes stopping on Delbert. The two exchanged some tired message. “Soooo, I’m going to call this an altercation. An unfortunate encounter in a men’s room. Maybe some drinking went on here . . .” He looked at McLuster and Teach. “Maybe some words were passed that shouldn’t have been . . .” He looked at Tyrone who stared his rage at Teach. “I’m going to leave it there for now, with Detective Delbert’s concurrence, of course.” A firm nod from Delbert. “Now, what do you gentlemen think of that?”

It’s over, Teach thought, at last over. He could get out of here. Not leave as the hero he’d thought he was (Did I ever tell you about the time I was attacked by this kid with a knife in a damn men’s room? And, buddy, I mean a small men’s room!), but leave with no more damage than the blood on his coat sleeve, a mean headache, and a lower opinion of his fellow man.

But Tyrone Battles looked at Aimes, who was his uncle, and said, low and cold, “Fuck no, man, it ain’t all right with me.” The kid shoved back in his chair, away from the circle of reasonableness Aimes had drawn, and said it again: “Fuck no, man. It ain’t all right. Look what this white bitch did to my pretty face. I’m gonna get me a Polaroid and take some pictures of this face, man.” He pointed at Teach. “I’m gonna get you, man.” He stuck his forefinger under his cheekbone and pushed the split flesh up in a way that must have hurt. The boy shoved his face forward, bending at the waist, showing it to Aimes, and Aimes was on him. A big man moving fast, he caught the boy by the front of his shirt and sat him down.

Remind me, Teach thought, not to mess with this man.

Aimes stood over Tyrone, staring down into his face. “Don’t you ever call me man. You call me uncle when I’m eating at your mama’s table, and the rest of the time you call me De-tec-tive Aimes. Those are your two options, you understand me?” He sat down and looked around the table. “Now, like I said, I’m gonna call this an altercation. Detective Delbert and I, we’ll file the report. You three gentlemen think about it for a day or two, and then if anybody wants to put charges on anybody, why, we’ll take it on from there, see where it goes. Now, is that all right?”

Teach tried to catch the man’s eye to say, one man to another, that it was a good plan. But the cop wouldn’t look at him. Teach didn’t push it. Maybe the boy had embarrassed his uncle. Maybe this family thing put the cop in a place where he wasn’t comfortable. Teach looked carefully at McLuster and said, “Sure. I guess so.” He glanced at his watch. “My daughter’s dancing in thirty minutes.”

Delbert wrote something down. McLuster shook his head, disgusted. He examined his hands on the table, sighed. “Sure, it’s all right.” He looked around the bar and muttered, “Stop for a drink on a Friday afternoon and what the hell happens? Jesus.”

Delbert wrote it. Aimes nodded at McLuster, then turned to Tyrone who was smoothing his silk shirt where his uncle’s fists had wrinkled it. The kid shook his head. “Fuck!” And his lean, lithe body was up and out the door.

Aimes stood and Delbert imitated him. Aimes shook his head, then looked down at Teach and McLuster. “We’ve got your names and addresses. I take it you gentlemen will be leaving now?”

Teach said, “Thank you, Detective Aimes.”

Aimes looked back at him sharply. “Don’t thank me, Mr. Teach, not yet anyway.” He turned to his partner. “Just a minute . . .” He walked toward the men’s room. The fucking black hole of Calcutta, Teach thought, watching the detective go off to pee.

When Aimes was gone, Teach rose and walked over to Delbert. He had to talk to the guy. Find out what he thought about this.

As Teach approached, Delbert’s eyes hardened. Teach was about to rest a salesman’s hand on the cop’s shoulder but the eyes told him not to. Teach put his hands in his pockets and said, “Uh, look, Detective Delbert.” Nodding at the men’s room. “What’s he, uh, what’s he going to do about all this?”

Delbert shrugged, pursed his lips, closed the pad, and put it into his coat pocket. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, but you better hope this thing stops right here.” Delbert pointed at the door Tyrone Battles had just exited. “That boy’s family’s a walking history of the civil rights movement in this state. Freedom rides, the St. Augustine Slave Market sit-ins, all of it.”

For the third time in an hour, Teach’s knees liquefied, and his vision narrowed. “But what about him?” Nodding again at the men’s room door. “What’s he gonna do?”

Delbert shrugged again. A cop’s response to a life lived in the vortex of Tampa’s troubles. The Big Shrug. Delbert said, “I don’t know what he’s gonna do. But I’ll tell you this: with Aimes it’s hard but it’s fair.”

Aimes came out of the men’s room, and Teach watched the two cops leave. Then he turned to the bar for the bourbon he needed. For the mended view that would come with it. McLuster was already at the bar, getting a quick one for the road. Teach took a stool and said, “The same again, please.” Then to McLuster, “Christ, what a day. You walk into a bar and you—”

Benny the bartender looked at Teach in a not very serving way. “Your money’s no good here, buddy. Why don’t you take your ass down the road. We got to make a living in this neighborhood.”

Ah, Teach thought, ah yes. And his hand shook a little at the deferral of bourbon. Ah yes, indeed. So speaks this minion of the unseen Malone. Teach slid from the stool. Looked over at McLuster, who stared back at him from the bottom of the well of a fat man’s unhappiness.

“Well . . .” Teach tapped his watch. The ballet recital, his daughter spinning in bright light, in impossibly unstable shoes, surrounded by a supporting cast of the young and eager, and sometimes the beautiful. His daughter a vision of gift and light and love. Teach said to McLuster, “Well . . . I’d like to stay for one more, but I’ve got to go.”

The man’s chin trembled. “You ever,” McLuster said, his hand lifting a glass to his lips, spilling some of it, putting it down. “You ever tell anyone about this . . .”

Teach raised his hands, let them fall, shook his head. Why would he? Who did he know that would . . . ? But now he could see himself telling the story. The pee stain a necessary piece of the bizarre puzzle of this afternoon.

McLuster swiveled on the stool, his chin quivering, his eyes going moist. And then Teach felt for the man. He took a step forward, some notion of comfort gathering in his mind. A hand to rest on the man’s shoulder. A couple of pats.

But McLuster leaned back, raised his hands, made fists. “Stay away from me, man. You got some serious aggression, you know that? You got some unresolved shit in there you need to work on. You need to see somebody.”

McLuster tossed money on the bar and started toward the door. Teach watched him. This was not a day to let anyone get behind you. McLuster stopped at the door, his red face swollen, shaking. “You never were worth a damn in the pocket, Mr. Hot-Shit Quarterback. You had a noodle arm, and you never could pass the gut check.”

The gut check? Teach thought, as McLuster opened the door, as the light, not so bright now at five thirty, shafted across the floor. The gut check. Check your guts at the door when you come to Malone’s Bar. Oh, how they piled on you here in Malone’s, Teach thought, and he would have laughed if his throat had not been too dry for even an exhausted croak. Benny the bartender wiped his shiny bald head with a towel and turned away.