As Elvis went through his paces on “In the Ghetto,” I cruised into Crawford. I went right past Walanda’s house, which still had a washer on the little five-by-five front lawn, and the porch door was still banging off the wall in the wind. The rest of the neighborhood looked like it needed a shower and a good night’s sleep. This part of town was where my Polish grandparents lived, and in their day it was a poor but proud neighborhood. Folks from my generation who wouldn’t think of walking a block through one of these neighborhoods now like to point out that their ancestors had little money but kept the neighborhood looking beautiful.
That sort of mentality had elements of truth to it, but it also seemed oversimplified to me. Growing up black and poor was a whole lot different than growing up Polish or Irish or Italian and poor. I’m not exactly sure why, but I believe it has something to do with one’s ancestors being sold as property for centuries. I know that doesn’t happen now, but I think the residual effects on our culture linger. I’m sure people a whole lot smarter than me could explain it better.
I parked my car near the top of the hill three blocks from the jail. My ’76 burnt orange Eldorado was a lot of things, but inconspicuous wasn’t one of them. Al and I walked down the street to get a look at the front doors of the county jail. The two-block walk took us past three guys selling crack and two women who offered to gratify a very specific desire of mine for ten dollars. Interestingly enough, the crack dealers were selling two rocks of crack for the same price.
The second woman dropped her price down to five dollars, and when I looked closer at her I realized she was a former client of mine whose case I recently closed.
“Teresa?” I asked.
“Yeah? Oh, Duff, it’s you… er… this isn’t what it looks like, man… I… uh,” she stopped in mid-sentence. Though her mind was fixated on nothing but crack, she still realized the absurdity of denying what she was doing, especially after just offering to perform an unmentionable act on me for five dollars.
“Teresa, be careful, please. Come in to the clinic tomorrow. Promise me.”
She started to cry and turned and walked up the street. I couldn’t think of anything sadder. By the time she reached the corner, she was already offering herself to the crackheads and johns walking by.
I would’ve pursued her, but I wanted to be in position by midnight and we had just five minutes. Al stood in the darkness next to a tree one block from the jail. I would’ve turned up my collar and smoked a cigarette like any self-respecting private eye, but I had on a hooded sweatshirt and I don’t smoke.
A Lexus SUV pulled up in the “No Parking” area in front of the jail at 11:58. The Lexus SUV was the pimpmobile of our times, replacing the Cadillac and Lincoln. I suppose today’s pimps did a lot of camping.
A black guy wearing a bright blue, baggy FUBU warm-up got out of the Lexus, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the front fender. He was a ways away but he looked like he could’ve been the guy from the website with Shony. The Lexus had gold trim all over it, and someone had taken great pains to wax the thing.
At 12:01, half a dozen people walked out of the front door. There were five men and one woman. Two of the men hooted and hollered when they walked out and gave each other high-fives. The other two men went in opposite directions, both lighting up cigarettes as if choreographed.
The woman was Stephanie, and she walked toward the Lexus. The black guy put out his cigarette and, without any acknowledgement toward Stephanie, got in the Lexus and started it up. Stephanie got into the passenger seat and the Lexus drove away.
I looked down to my private-eye partner, Al, and said, “I think we just met Tyrone.”
I didn’t have a whole lot of time to bask in the pride of my tremendous detective work. Before Al and I could step off the curb in the direction of the Eldorado, there was a screeching of tires and the slamming of doors, followed by a bunch of yelling.
“Hands up, hands in the air!” the guy jumping out of the silver Crown Victoria said. He was wearing a blue blazer with gray pants, though I didn’t get the color of his tie because I was busy looking at the gun pointed at my chest. He had a partner who had circled around the car and he, too, had his gun drawn.
I tried to put my hands in the air, but that pulled Al’s leash, which caused him to yelp and then bark. Both suits focused their guns on Al momentarily, then back at me. I could tell they couldn’t make up their minds which of us was more dangerous.
“Sorry-what do you want me to do?” I said.
“Make the dog shut up,” came from blue blazer who seemed to be in charge of talking. He had a Middle Eastern complexion with slicked-back, very dark hair and very bushy eyebrows.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I said.
The other guy who looked about twenty-five was about five foot eleven, 185 pounds. He had blond hair and it looked like he didn’t shave yet.
Al just kept barking and the two guys looked bewildered. I probably would have been much more frightened if Al wasn’t making such a racket. Too much was happening too fast.
“Tie the dog to the streetlight and get in the car,” Blue Blazer said.
“He’s not going to like that.”
“You think we’re playing games here!” He waved the gun toward the pole.
I tied Al to the pole, which thoroughly pissed him off. Then I got into the back seat with the two guns pointed at my face. The Middle Eastern guy had a pockmarked face and perfect white teeth, which made for a strange combination. Blondie had a slightly turned-up nose, which made him look even more juvenile than he already did.
Al wouldn’t shut up and the noise was deafening, even with the windows up.
“What do you know about Alfinuu?” Pockmark said.
“Not much, just-”
“Stop fucking around, sticking your head where it doesn’t belong.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Leave things alone.”
“What are you talking about?” This was getting weird.
“Alfinuu is nothing to mess with. Stay away-it’s a matter of national security.”
“Don’t you guys have to tell me who you are?”
“Duffy, you watch too many movies,” Pock said, which caused his pubescent partner to snicker. “Never mind about the girl too.”
“The girl?”
“Don’t fuck around with us. Do what you’re told. Go to the gym, go do some counseling, I don’t care, but stop looking into things that ain’t your business.” He paused for emphasis. “You hear me? Leave it alone-all of it.”
The car got quiet, which all of a sudden made me realize Al wasn’t barking. I looked at the streetlamp and Al’s collar and leash were there and he was gone.
“Al!” I yelled and went to bolt out the door but they were locked. “He’s gone-let me out.”
Pockmark laughed at me. “Word to the wise, Duff-do what you’re told and leave things alone. Now, get out of here and go find your fuckin’ dog.”
I heard the electric locks disengage and I ran out the car and into the street screaming for Al. I had no idea how to find a runaway dog, and in my panic I wasn’t being terribly strategic. I sprinted up one street and down the other, getting funny looks from the street whores and low-level crack dealers.
“Allah-King, Allah-King!” I screamed until I was hoarse. I was looking down driveways, in alleys, and behind abandoned buildings. Between the running and my anxiety I could feel myself running out of gas.
In the distance, a couple of blocks over, I thought I heard something. I didn’t waste time running around the block-I ran right through four backyards, jumping fences, and two streets over, I saw him and it dawned on me. This was where I should have started the search.
Al was on Walanda’s porch scratching at the front door, whimpering and then barking out of frustration.
“C’mere boy, it’s all right, it’s all right,” I said. It took him a little while to come to me, and when he did, he looked up and whimpered.