CHICKEN BOX
I walked into Regina’s Honey Fried Chicken a little after it opened at ten. It was an unassuming little place that was known for having some of the best fried chicken in the city. Rumor was, Regina Long pressure cooked her chicken after dipping it in a batter made of honey and other secret ingredients.
There were only two customers eating at a little table, but the place had a long line for carryout. In that line, I saw the usual working folk, a couple of single moms who were on the dole and a kid who should have been in school, who was probably cutting or maybe working in a crew.
None of them really held my attention as I moved to the head of the line and showed the cashier my badge and asked for the manager, Mr. Long.
In the back, Regina herself worked with her employees. She did not see me and I wasn’t here to see her, so I said nothing but I did get a good whiff of what she was cooking and it smelled like heaven.
The chicken joint’s neighborhood was also home to a local drug dealer named Every Wadson who had been killed last week. Every. That was one I had never heard.
Black people name their kids what seem to be strange and made up names. People unfamiliar with the culture often laugh, even as they name their kids “Scout” and “Apple” and shit like that.
Well, of course it comes from a place of pain and theft of culture and history. I know this because I’ve been lectured by friends, colleagues and criminals over the years. Every’s mom just wanted her boy to have some uniqueness of his own, something that he could carry with him forever.
Every Wadson and his unique name terrorized the little neighborhood, selling dope, running off rivals and collecting protection from the local businesses. If you didn’t pay him, he’d send some young kids to your place and vandalize it at night or maybe deface your ride or worse.
I was sure Regina’s had been paying him. Every had most folks afraid of him and rightly so. He was a violent criminal born to a mother who had been one of the most notorious drug dealers in the early 1980’s.
Shirley Wadson was called “Ice” on the street because she had the peculiar habit of sucking on ice cubes instead of drinking water. She was killed in a gunfight but not before leaving the world her little bundle of joy.
Someone had had enough of this nigga and killed him, let him have it with his own gun. They’d blown his head off. Shot him in the neck at close range and his head fell to one side, hanging on by a few muscles and skin. The killer had dropped the gun, wiped his prints and took off.
And yes, I do say the N-word, but only to myself. All white people do. Let’s just leave it at that.
This was a major crime because the deceased was connected to two major drug suppliers and the savagery of the killing suggested a turf war. I didn’t think so, but that idea served my purpose.
Every smoked a lot of weed and had a bad habit of using his own stash and was known to get high and sleep from about noon to three each day, normal down time for drug boys.
Last week, while he was asleep, someone just walked into his house and shot him. Every just sat there in the chair for days until the smell alerted his neighbors.
No one had said anything and no one was talking so far. I had to officially start working this case so I figured I should check out Every’s killer and make sure he did not skip town. Yes, I knew who did it. I knew the night I went to the dead drug dealer’s house.
“Mr. Long?” I said as a man opened the rear door and walked out.
“Yes,” said the man who was about forty-five, black and as mild mannered looking a guy as I’d ever seen.
“I’m Detective Cavanaugh. I’d like a moment of your time.”
“What about?” asked John Long nervously. “Not that drug dealer?”
He had a look of alarm in his eyes. I would too, if I had killed a man and a detective came to my door.
“Yes. I’m working the case,” I said calmly.
“What do you want from me?” asked John.
“I’m interviewing potential witnesses from the neighborhood. You were there that night when we investigated.”
“We were all watching, the whole street,” said John looking a little calmer now. “Boy was a menace, in case you didn’t know.”
“We do know. Can I speak to you in the back office?” I asked.
“Oh yes, sure.”
We walked into the office and it was actually a very nice one. It looked like a mini executive suite. I guess John didn’t care that his customers had a shitty place to eat but he would be damned of he didn’t have a nice office to work in.
“I remember you,” said John. “Not many white boys sound like that. Where’d you grow up?”
“East side, outside of Hamtramck,” I said.
“Pączkis,” said John. “Man, I love those. City’s full of them damned Arabs now.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m trying to close the case and I have a theory.”
“Okay,” said John. “Make it quick because I have to get back to work soon.”
“No problem,” I said. “I noticed that Every had some of your chicken at his place when he died. He probably liked to get high and eat it. But he was asleep when he was shot, according to the M.E.”
“Yeah, he was a regular,” said John. “You can see, a lot of people are. We sell a good product.”
“But you don’t deliver,” I said. “Someone brought him that chicken. Don’t think he bought it then fell asleep before eating. His meal was untouched. In fact, it was in the garbage. Someone put it in there. They actually picked up some trash to hide the chicken box under it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whoever brought that chicken, also shot the man.”
“Maybe one of his crew brought it,” said John, too quickly. “They come in for him all the time.”
“I thought about that,” I said. “Funny thing is, they all have a good alibi. They got picked up by the police for selling around the time of the murder.”
John was shaking now and I knew he’d lose it in a second. He walked over to his sofa and sat on the arm.
“I knew it,” said John. “I know that—“
“Now, I don’t know who did it,” I said, cutting him off. “Really, I’d like to give whoever did it a medal. Every Wadson was suspected in at least three murders, convicted of robbery and assault. Once, he was going to prison for raping a thirteen year old girl, when the victim’s mother mysteriously broke her arm and then the victim refused to testify. Also, he beat a dog to death a year ago, according to your neighbors.”
“He did,” said John in a low voice. “It was my neighbor’s dog. Roscoe got loose and was barking loudly and… Yes, Every was a bad person, terrible. I didn’t mean—“
“You should know,” I said, “that I plan to investigate this murder for the next few months. Thing is, I’m just working on a theory here and I’m not sure if this chicken clue will lead anywhere, even though I have what looks to be a good fingerprint on the box that chicken was in.”
John winced as I said this. He had been careful not to leave fingerprints on the gun, but he rushed to get out and in his haste, had forgotten that he touched the chicken box. I had not taken the box to forensics. It was in a plastic bag in evidence. I was just holding it but John didn’t know that.
“So, be careful what you say,” I continued. “It could make me have to do something I don’t want to do.”
John was much calmer now as he had figured out that I had no intention of taking him in for killing a piece of filth like Every Wadson.
“I uh, okay,” said John. “But what do I— uh what would a person do if that chicken box business was real?”
“He would call my boss in three weeks and complain that I am harassing him trying to solve this case and he would get a very trusted friend to do the same for him, three weeks later and he would make sure both complaints were in writing, email form, so that it will go in my reports.”
“Okay,” said John. “Okay, detective. I got it and I’ll mark it on my calendar. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “I will close this case. I just need time to find a way so that no good people get into trouble.”
“Yes,” said John. “I see.”
“Good. You know, someone else will come to replace Every. All you business people here can stop that by banding together. Easier than waiting for someone to do what someone did to Every.”
“You’re pretty smart to have figured all that out,” said John.
“Not really,” I said. “Every Wadson was a bad person and sooner or later guys like that get got by someone. Dealers would have either dumped him or just disappeared his ass. I knew it wasn’t a pro and since most murders are committed by men, here I am talking to you, instead of your wife. But this is all still theoretical.”
“Why do you want me to complain about you then?” asked John.
“Don’t think you should be asking questions right now,” I said.
He just nodded. It had been quite a day for him and I didn’t want to make it any worse. I reminded him not to leave town and said goodbye. I turned to leave, then something important occurred to me.
“Oh, can I get a number two to go?” I asked. “I’m gonna be hungry in a minute.”