"That's right," said the young man on the ground. "And in the house, he called me a motherfucker too."
"Wait a minute," Charlie said. "I got a problem here. Being how Leonard's black, is that racist? I mean, me or you said it, it's racist, but it's okay a black guy uses the N word, ain't it?"
"Changing times," I said. "It's hard to keep up. If it's not racist, I think it may be politically incorrect."
"There you are," Charlie said. "That's it. Politically incorrect. I think there's some kind of fine for that."
"Man, this is some shit," said the guy on the ground. "Let me up. Someone sees me layin' here, it ain't gonna look good."
"You think we got you out here to style?” Charlie said. "Shut the fuck up. “Then to me: "Think Leonard's finished?"
"Well, the house is lit up good."
And it was. The fire peaked and popped and rose up into the night sky like a red demon, roiled and licked around the blackened frame of the house. Lumber screeched and sagged. The heat was not quite as pleasant as before. I said, "It was nice of you to stand here and wait."
"Hey," Charlie said, his face popping sweat in the firelight, "Christmas Eve."
Charlie looked at the firemen who were standing by with their hoses, and gave them a wave. They didn't exactly rush, but they went over to wash the place down, get it ready for the dozer to come in and push the burnt lumber around, make room for the dopers to bring in a new crack house.
And they would. Rumor was, the Police Chief had friends who had connections to the LaBorde dope traffic, and he liked to help them out for a little slice of the pie. Rumors like that could make a man cynical, even one of my naive and trusting nature.
When I was growing up, guy with a badge was just assumed to be honest, and the Lone Ranger didn't shoot bad guys in the head either. These days, Jesus would carry a gun, and the disciples would hold down and corn-hole their enemies.
"You think Leonard will do time for this one?” I asked.
"So far he hasn't, and I'll do what I can. A night in jail, maybe. But I keep him out of bad stuff this time, you got to make him understand he needs a new hobby. I know a hobby has done wonders for me. I used to be tense, then I got a hobby. You know, I don't get Leonard. I thought queers were into passive stuff. Like knitting and bridge."
"Don't even let him hear you say that," I said. "The passive part, I mean."
"You can bet I won't."
"I'll tell him," said the guy on the ground.
"You do," Charlie said, "And I'll stomp a mud hole in your head."
"I'm cool," said the guy on the ground.
Leonard strolled over to us then. He looked a little bushed.
"Charlie," he said.
"Howdy," Charlie said. "Okay, Leonard, you and Hap get in the cruiser . . . wait a minute. I'm gonna handcuff you together."
"Come on, Charlie," I said. "I didn't do anything, really."
"You hit this young gentleman. Put your hands out, both of you. Supposed to handcuff you with separate handcuffs, behind your back, but like I said, it's fuckin' Christmas Eve."
We were about to be handcuffed when Raul came over and took Leonard by the arm and started to cry. "Don't," Leonard said. "I can't stand all that cryin'. You're always cryin'."
"I'm fucking emotional," Raul said.
"Well, cut that cryin' shit. It makes me nervous."
"I'm crying, not you, so what are you embarrassed about?"
"It's got nothing to do with embarrassment."
"Hell," Raul said, and he tugged on Leonard's arm, but Leonard wouldn't look at him.
"Sorry, Raul," Charlie said. "You got to let him go. You want to see him, come down to the station. We got special times for asshole viewing."
"No," Raul said, letting go of Leonard's arm. "I won't be here when you get back, Leonard."
"Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on the way out,"
Leonard said.
"You could ask me not to leave."
"I didn't ask you to leave in the first place."
Raul looked at Leonard for a moment, pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, turned and walked back to Leonard's house. He moved as if he were carrying a piano on his back.
"Shit, Leonard," I said, "Raul is just worried about you."
"Yeah, Leonard," Charlie said, "you don't always got to be an asshole."
"Man, you are one cold dude," said the guy on the ground. "I wouldn't talk to my woman that way, and she's stupid as a stick. You homos, man, y'all are chill motherfuckers."
"Shut up," said Charlie. "This ain't your business."
"Man," said the guy on the ground, "Merry fucking Christmas."
"Here," Charlie said, "hold out a hand."
He handcuffed me and Leonard together and sent us over to the unmarked. Part of the neighborhood was standing out on the curb watching the crack house burn. One old man, Mr. Trotter, stood there with his arms crossed inside a coat a grizzly bear might have worn. He was smoking a cigar. He said, "Of them three fires, this one's the best, Leonard."
"Thanks," Leonard said. "It's the practice makes the difference."
We got in the unmarked. We watched through the window as Charlie got the little guy off the ground and into an armlock and walked him toward a blue suit who came over and put the guy in handcuffs and shoved him into the back of the cruiser with Mohawk.
A handful of blue suits were combing the woods out back, and we could see one cop coming out with the bathrobed woman in tow. She was cuffed and had on her wig, which was giving off a faint trail of light gray smoke in the moonlight. She was cussing a blue streak. We could hear her with the windows rolled up. She was good at including "you fuckin' pale-dicked ass licker" into all her sentences without it sounding strained or overworked.
Leonard settled back in his seat and sighed slowly. "Shit," he said. "Raul's right. I always got to be the tough guy. I really like that fag. Really. Why have I always got to play it tough?"
"You're black and gay and inadequate sexually, and therefore find yourself doubly oppressed by white society, as well as being ill-suited emotionally for adjusting to the macho, black community that is your birthright."
"Oh yeah. That's right. I forgot."
"You also smell like a smoked ham."
Charlie slid in behind the wheel and closed the door, sharply. "We're leaving a couple of cops here to watch your house, Leonard. Make sure Raul's okay too. Least till he gets packed up and out. He said he's, and I quote, 'gone like the fucking wind,' unquote."
"All right," Leonard said. "Thanks."
"Will he really go?” I asked.
"Who's to say?” Leonard said.
Charlie cranked the car. Leonard said, "Could we stop for ice cream before we go in?"
"It's cold for ice cream," Charlie said.
"I like it anyway," Leonard said. "So, what do you say? I'm kinda depressed."
"I don't see why not," Charlie said. "Frozen yogurt all right? I'm on a diet."
"Suits me," Leonard said. "You're paying though. I don't have my wallet on me."
"I'm not paying shit," Charlie said. "You brought it up, you treat. Damn, Leonard, you're making my eyes burn."
"It's that cheap paneling in the house," Leonard said. "It goes up quick and stinks and the stink gets on you. Fucking walls are like they're made out of starter logs, which I guess is okay, seeing how I'm lighting the fire. “
"I didn't hear you say that," said Charlie.
"I got money," I said. "My treat all around."
Charlie eased away from the curb. I took a last look at the burning house. Some timbers were sagging and crashing in with an explosion of sparks and smoke. Raul was standing on Leonard's porch watching us drive by. Leonard looked in Raul's direction. Neither of them waved.
I said, "Oh, Leonard, don't let me forget. We ever get back, I got your Christmas present in the pickup."
"Yeah, well," Leonard said, "I hope it ain't HIS and HIS towels."
Chapter 2
We were in Lieutenant Hanson's office finishing off what was left of our yogurt cones, but the Lieutenant wasn't there. Considering we hadn't bought him anything, I guess that was best.