17
Retrieving Mine

Minutes that seemed like hours later, I found myself in what proved to be an interrogation room. Men in suits rotated in and out well into the following morning, taking turns rummaging the inner-most chambers of my mind…or so they were led to believe. I’ve been in the game long enough to know the standard “policies and procedures” right down to knowledge of how long they could keep me, and under what conditions. Granted, being caught with a dead man in the back of my car didn’t win me any brownie points in their assessment for my Good Samaritan’s award. But it would only be a matter of time before the whole incident was investigated and it determined neither of my guns was the one that killed Oz. That, accompanying the fact Tony had previously named other suspects, would be enough to give the hounds other foxes to chase, provided they could get to them before I did.

It was exactly two days later, a coincidental forty-eight hours, when detectives informed me that the story I’d spun them checked out. As well, there wasn’t enough evidence to hold me on any of the litany of other pending charges. They took the liberty of warning against taking any trips out of town and enlisted the typical “keep looking over your shoulder” hook aimed at intimidating me. After signing what seemed to be a contract stating I wasn’t mistreated, abused, denied my right to counsel, coerced, or any of the other rights on which they wanted to cover the city’s ass, I was handed a large brown envelope with my name scribbled on it.

The prehistoric attendant’s raspy bark, peculiarly, made me think of a rugged mountain man in some obscure part of the Rockies. “Make sho e’rything in there that s’pose to be,” he said.

Taking a quick peak, I determined there was something missing from the package and called his attention to it, “This not all I had.”

“What you thank ain’t dere?” he asked.

“Well, it appears I’m short about a hundred and forty dollars, for one. My gold rope chain and matching bracelet isn’t here…” I started.

The Grizzly Adams look-alike cut in, “Well, that’s all what stuff I was gave when you come in. You just gotta file a report, I guess. That use-ly take a few weeks, but wit all what been going on, could be long as couple months ‘fore they get ‘round to looking into the whole thang.”

Immediately, I felt perspiration begin to saturate the back of my shirt as I tried to avoid boiling over on his fat ass. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s not all that important anyway.”

His concern was noticeably artificial, “You sho ya don’t wanna file no report?”

I ignored the question. “What about the three guns? They’re not in the bag either. They legal; I’ve got proper papers and everything on them.”

Closing and locking the metal mesh window, “Not in New York City they ain’t,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” I complained.

“Guess you just have to file a report fo them too,” he said, never breaking stride. He smirked, turned the corner, and hobbled out of sight.

I walked away with clenched fists thinking, This definitely isn’t the place to blow a gasket. All they need is that one straw to break the camel’s back. I’ve got too many other things to work out that are a whole lot more important at the moment than my stuff.

The events of the past few days were replaying in my mind when I left the property room. Forging past all the fatigue, hunger, anger, frustration and bitterness was the pain of Oz’s undoing. That had me focused on the fate of the two sons of bitches that had pre-programmed all the shit with which I found myself dealing.

Sam’s Southern drawl was unmistakable as I exited the precinct, “Damn, dat ain’t s’posed ta be da look on ya face comin outta ‘dis place. Ya looks like ya’s jest comin in,” he said.

Looking up to see him decked out in his “taking care of business” suit, I questioned, “Poppy, how did you…?”

He explained, “Well some lady calls da house couple days ‘go, tells me ‘n Eunice ‘bout all what go’n on; said dey’s no point comin down ‘fore now ‘cause dey wadn’t gone let nobody sees ya no ways ‘cept one o’ dem law fellas…say ya ain’t even ask fo none.”

“Well, it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle,” I attempted making lite of the circumstances.

With a voice full of sarcasm and a coy smirk on his face, “Oh, so ya done been ta school ‘n gits yo lawy’r license since da last time ya was at da house?” he asked.

“It’s not a license,” I corrected. “That would be a degree, a law degree…and no Poppy, I don’t have one.”

He was saddling his horse, “Well, if’n ya needs a good law man…”

I interrupted, “What lady called you?”

Wearing an expression that showed his disapproval of having been cut off, Sam asked, “What’d ya say?”

“You said a lady called the house.” I continued, “What lady?”

His furry eyebrows nearly touched in the middle of a weathered forehead as he scowled, “No,” he said, “She say huh name Lady…E. Lady. I figure it ta be one o’ dese folks from down here. ‘Least she sound like da po-lice. ‘Couldn’t figure why da law care ‘nough ta call da house.” He shifted his weight to the other leg, “How dey knows ta call da house fur ya?”

“I know her Poppy,” I volunteered. “She’s a friend…or, at least, was a friend.”

“Well, she call talk’n real nice…too nice ta be da po-lice,” he said. “And ya say she yo friend?”

“Well, she was a friend, but something came up,” I replied. “It’s not like that no…I mean, anymore.”

He raised his head to make eye contact, “That ain’t da way hit sound when she call da house. Sound like some real ser’ous stuff what was goin on wit huh: Like when someb’dy be yankin dem heart strangs.”

The comment was more to myself than anyone when I mumbled, “…guess it was a little deeper than I thought.”

“What dat?” he questioned.

“I said my stomach is in a knot,” I covered. “You feel like getting something to eat?” I asked.

Sam looked at me and squinted as though trying to make out who I was, while mumbling something inaudible before stating, “Now I knows damn well dey done did somthin ta ya. Ya knows bet’er ‘n fix yo face ta ask som’tin like ‘at,” he muttered. Heading for the front door of the police station, Sam directed, “Brang yo ass on. I gots food at da house bet’r ‘n this shit dey sell’n down here. Come on up ta da ‘partment…Eunice ‘bout ta go crazy anyhow.”

As respectfully as irritation would allow, “Not today, Sam,” I declined. “First, I need to figure out how to pick up my car and then get back to the Village for a shower and change out these clothes. They don’t work so well after the second day,” I said. “Maybe I’ll feel well enough to stop by tomorrow afternoon, if you’ll have me.”

Ignoring my comment, “Dat be fine,” he said, “Food be ready when ya gets dere. Eunice be glad ta see ya, too.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be glad to get some real food…what’s on the menu?” I asked.

He looked at me with that classic one-sided grin, “Well, since it’ll be ya first meal at da house as a free man, I’ll fix up whats’never ya wants,” he said.

I was trying to fight my way out of the emotional hole into which I’d fallen when replying, “I think some fried chicken, corn, and mashed potatoes might work…and don’t forget the cornbread.”

He said, passing out the door, “I’ll be sho ‘n lets Eunice knows. So she be sho ‘an git finished in huh part o’ da kitchen b‘fore I gits started.”

I had to go back inside to a different office where it took another half hour dealing with idiots in two additional rooms at the station before I finally got the information regarding requirements to pick up my car. Then it was still a matter of a two-hour subway ride, twenty minutes on the bus, a twelve-dollar cab fare, and a quarter-mile hike before I got to the place where I caught even more hell about picking up my car…something that legally belonged to me.

Right about the time I had myself convinced every employee of the crooked city was involved in a five-borough conspiracy—“You said, it was a Impala, right?” the slender kid with the Lou Rawls voice asked.

“Yeah, the charcoal-gray one,” I said.

Shaking his head, he sighed, “Well, all I got in the computer is a burgundy Impala…no charcoal.”

“They should’ve brought it out here within the past couple days. It’s the one that was involved in the high-speed chase through Harlem a few days ago,” I explained. “…missing the driver-side front window.”

With an air of optimism, he briefly lifted his eyes from the keyboard, “I remember that car,” he said. “They was unloading it when I got to work…kept on calling it a Monte Carlo cause it ain’t the short-body style like the new Impalas,” he explained without breaking his rhythm, “My name David.”

“So how are you going to find it if they put the wrong information into the computer?” I asked.

“Well, it ain’t a problem if you know what you’s doing,” he said. “You just have to know where to look. Sometimes these clowns gets lazy and don’t care what they do. Had one car was lost somewhere out here nearly four years.”

“Big place,” I said.

David responded in the voice of a New York City tour guide, “Yep,” he stated, “Seven hundred fifty thousand acres. They gone be outta room soon if cars keep being brung out here the way they been doing.”

My voice was a little more brash than I’d realized as the inquiry was quickly turning into a conversation I really wasn’t interested in having, “Well, I’m not so concerned about the rest of them. I just need to know what I’ve gotta do to get mine,” I said.

David was noticeably bothered, “Just sign right here. You keep the white copy. I’ll radio and tell ‘em to bring it ‘round. By the time you gets back out to the gate, it oughta be there…good day.”

Without additional comment, I simply picked up my keys from the counter and started out. As I passed from the small office, there was a frail Jewish fellow entering through the opposite door. He was on the phone debating with one of the city tow truck drivers, “...And I’ll have everything in pants brought up on charges in civil court if there’s one scratch on my boy’s damn car.”

Politely stepping aside to let him pass, “Excuse me, sir,” I said.

He then snapped at me, “And what ‘n hell you want?”

To be certain I’d heard him correctly, I asked, “Begging your pardon, sir?”

Pushing past me in the doorway, he mumbled, “Oh, just move out my damn way, boy!”

Before I realized what was happening, I had grabbed the fragile stick by the neck, spun him around, and shoved his face damn near through the wall. David, behind the counter, immediately closed and locked the bars at the customer service window. He began squawking on the two-way radio like a mother goose. I stood silently, looking at the older man, actually almost feeling sorry for him…until he opened his mouth again.

“You’ve just shit and stepped in it barefoot, you son of a…”

He never finished that statement. Without blinking an eye, I caught him flush on the chin with a straight right and watched as he slid, belly up, across the floor. After finally coming to a stop, the fragile man looked up to find me straddling him, staring down at the blood trickling from his mouth.

Without raising my voice, I said, “You have never met my mama…best you keep her name out your damn mouth.”

I heard the clerk calling for the cavalry in a panic, “…Yeah, this…this is…this David, over at Gate J. I got a bit of a situation developing over here!”

While the agent was summoning help, I politely reached down, picked up my keys from beside the scarecrow, stepped across him, and left the building to the sound of the little man’s protest.

His voice echoed in the mostly empty space, “You don’t know who the hell I am,” he said. “Boy, I’ll have your apartment building demolished and turned into a parking garage by the time you can get home.”

Upon exiting the building, I passed a silver six-hundred-series Mercedes with dark tinted windows parked directly in front of the door. Once past, I glanced back at the license plate to find out what state that damned tourist crawled over from. The personalized New York plates read JUDGE-1. I remember laughing to myself, “OOOPS, Guess I might be barefoot by morning.”

Just a couple short minutes later, I was already turning onto the highway when two of the facility’s security vehicles came speeding past. “Probably looking for a Monte Carlo,” I chuckled.

I accelerated to make sure there would be enough distance between the Barney Fife Patrol and me by the time they realized who was supposed to be the object of their chase. For most of the way back to the city I continued, periodically checking the rearview mirror just to be certain nobody in uniform would sneak up on me.