One of the three ladies was a recovering crack addict named Laila. I hadn’t been her caseworker, but I had run a few groups she was in and she liked me.
“Hey Duffy,” Laila said. “What you doin’ out here in the hood?”
“I wanted to see what I could find out about Walanda,” I said.
Al jumped up her leg, getting about as far as her knee. Laila returned the affection. Clearly they were old friends.
“That girl was a shame,” the woman to Laila’s right said. She was very dark skinned and had tight little braids in her hair. “Started to have it together and then lost it even worse. For real, she shoulda stayed in the Nation.”
“You guys ever see her with somebody she shouldn’t have been with?” I asked.
“That child never stopped bein’ with people she shouldn’t been with, Duff,” Laila said.
“I guess that was a stupid question. Ever hear her talk about ‘Webster’ or ‘The Webster’?”
“She went on and on about some ‘Webster’ taking her stepdaughter Shony for hoin’,” the third woman said. She was lighter skinned and freckled with a short and very wide nose. “I don’t know what that girl was talkin’ ’bout.”
“Did you know what she was talking about?” I asked the darker woman.
“Nah, that girl crazy from the crack.”
“Anybody ever hear about ‘Webster’ or anybody like that pimping?”
“All her men were pimps and she went on the street when she need to get high. Everybody know that,” said Laila.
“Anything having to do with ‘Webster’?”
“No,” the light-skinned woman said. “But there was one ugly white dude used to come ’round givin’ her crack. Big ugly-ass biker dude. They’d go for a ride or something. I don’t know if he was pimping her or what.”
“I never heard no ‘Webster’ stuff,” the dark woman said.
“Tell you what, though, that Shony a pretty girl,” said Laila. “Like a young Whitney Houston. She wasn’t Walanda’s, but Walanda loved her.”
“Shony’s a good girl too. Sings in church, volunteers with the old folks, and gets good grades,” said the light-skinned woman.
“That’s right. My gramma is in the county home, and Shony and the other church girls come sing for her every Sunday afternoon,” said the darker woman.
“Duff, that girl was Walanda’s hope,” Laila said. “It was like Walanda was goin’ put every ounce of whatever positive she had left inside her for that child to make up for all of the years she’s done wrong.”
“I think she was also givin’ Shony all the love that she lost when Benjamin was killed in that home,” the light-skinned woman shook her head. “That was a damn shame, him gettin’ murdered. Walanda ain’t never been right after that.”
“Anyone know where Shony’s father is?” I asked.
“Her natural father was that crackhead Bertrand. He ain’t around no more. Walanda was livin’ with Tyrone for a while with Shony,” Laila said.
“Tyrone? That man is a stone-cold pervert,” said the dark-skinned woman.
“Crackhead sell his mother for a rock. I heard he moved to the country or somethin’. That boy need to be locked up,” said the light-skinned woman.
“He’s that bad?” I said.
“Walanda was always afraid he’d turn Shony out,” the dark woman said. “He might too, if it meant getting’ his ragged ass some crack.”
“Know if he did?”
“Don’t think so. You know that Walanda was crazy like a fox sometime. She took a bread knife to him once. Cut up his ass good too,” said the dark woman.
“And no one knows about ‘Webster’ except her going on about it?”
The three of them shook their heads. I thanked them and headed back to the Eldorado. When we passed Walanda’s house, Al started for the porch and I had to tug him to come with me. He let out a couple of high-pitched whines and he reluctantly came along.
That night I headed over to AJ’s. It was late and I guess I missed Kelley, but the Foursome were there.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” Rocco said. “They had to wrap Dorothy’s tits in a big Ace bandage so her nipples wouldn’t show through in that scene with the Munchkins.”
“The Munchkins were deathly afraid of nipples for some reason?” TC said.
“You know, if you look close in that scene when the good witch is flying away and they’re all waving,” said Jerry Number Two, “they’re actually all giving her the finger.”
“That’s because the good witch wouldn’t show her nipples,” said Jerry Number One.
It was a shame to cut into such an intellectual debate, but I grabbed my Schlitz and went to talk to Jerry Number Two.
“Hey, Jer.”
“What’s up, Duff?”
“You spend a fair amount of time on your computer, don’t you?”
“I try to limit it to eight hours a day. That’s why I come here at night. I don’t want to burn myself out.”
“What kind of stuff do you do all day?”
“Depends on the day,” he sipped his Cosmopolitan. “Depends on what I’m working on.”
Considering Jerry Number Two didn’t actually work, I found this statement a bit curious. Just the same, I had to respect the man’s sense of balance in his life.
“I spend a lot of time chatting with other Trekkies and finding out where and when the conventions are. I play some online Dungeons amp; Dragons. A lot of time I spend looking up the family genealogy.”
“Are you pretty good at finding things out using the computer?”
“Depends what it is.”
“I’m trying to find out something and I was wondering if you would help.”
“Sure, Duff, I kind of like hunting for stuff. What are you looking for?”
“That client of mine that got murdered, she said that the ‘Webster’ took her daughter. I also saw some women in the jail with spiderweb tattoos. I don’t know what it all means and it goes beyond my surfing abilities.”
“Duff, that’s a pretty broad search. You have an idea what you think you’re going to find?”
“I’m guessing something perverted. Prostitution, porn, something.”
“I’ll give it a go. How will I know when I’ve found something?”
“Just let me know if you find anything interesting.”
“Porn and prostitution usually are interesting,” Jerry finished the Cosmo and called to AJ for another.
“Hey, Jer, knock yourself out,” I said.
I asked AJ to back all the boys up, and I headed to the Moody Blue. It was late, I was tired, and the Schlitzes had worn me down a bit. I wanted to get in bed. When I got to the Blue and pulled into my gravel driveway, I saw Lisa’s car. She was standing up, leaning against the driver’s door.
“Duff, can we talk?” She had been crying.
“I don’t know, Lis, it’s been a long day,” I said.
“I think you owe me that,” she said with a touch of righteous indignation.
I resisted addressing what I “owed” this woman who dumped me by leaving a message on my machine. Instead there was something else I wanted to know about.
“What did you do to your hair?” She had a man’s crew cut. Her shoulder-length hair was gone.
“I’m re-creating myself,” she said without the confidence that she should have had.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” Even as I asked it I regretted it.
“Us,” Lisa looked down at her work boots, which I figured were another part of her ongoing re-creation. “I’m not sure I’m ready to let us go.”
“Uh-huh…” I had no idea how to address that.
“It’s just that, uh, I-”
“I think it’s just that you ditched me and were real quick to point out my intimacy shortcomings.”
“Duffy, I just don’t know what I need right now,” she had that fabricated look of urgency I’ve seen in women before. It comes after they break up with you and realize that being single isn’t all they dreamed of. The panic and the pleading come as a reaction to their loneliness. The problem is, it’s all about them. Once you go back with them, they return to where they were and soon you’re back to being the piece of shit you were before. I’ve seen it a lot.