Tell Them Your Name Is Barbara

by L.J. Smith

East St. Louis, IL

Sitting on a plush barstool in my favorite watering hole—legs crossed, suited down in Armani, rich-bitch-litigator posture—I watch Dolly mix my Grey Goose martini with skills born of twenty years of bartending in the most prestigious bar in black St. Louis. As Dolly places the martini in front of me—her nineties neck-plunging Norma Kamali jumpsuit revealing cleavage and champagne-stopper nipples poking through skimpy spandex—I have to admit she still looks damn good.

Club owner Steve Charles, who fancies himself the black Sinatra, sings “Fly Me to the Moon.” Every Thursday night Steve and the band, Jazz Classique, entertain his guests while Dolly keeps the drinks coming with smooth precision.

He works the room, singing into the cordless mic. He grabs one of the customers and starts swing dancing with her and the whole room is finger popping and slapping five as Steve puts on his show. Enjoying the view, I take a Dunhill from my sterling case. From behind me, Lance reaches around with a flame to light it, nestling his lips in the nape of my neck and moaning as he takes in my fragrance.

He whispers, “I see my money is keeping you lookin’ and smellin’ good. You smell so good, you givin’ me a hard-on.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t the one, sweetheart,” I inform him as I wipe his vapor off my neck. “If you would keep your ass out of trouble, I wouldn’t have so much of your money, but what the hell. Keep doing what you’re doing. I don’t want to mess up my job security.”

Lance, one of my oldest clients, can’t see why he can’t make a career distributing dope to street hustlers. The police can’t get his employees to rat him out, out of fear for their lives and their families. Besides, the street hustlers don’t care about getting locked up because Lance has some high-ranking police officials who manage to get evidence lost and cases dropped.

He slips a package into my jacket pocket. “This should make us even on what I owe you for court last week. Dolly, pour me a Rémy Martin straight up and put it on Kaycie’s tab.”

I call Michael. I love listening to Steve Charles, but I’m not about to sit here with all this dope in my pocket when I could be partying. I’m ready to get my freak on. Lance’s drink is gone in two gulps.

“Give him another one on me, Dolly, and keep the change.” I place a fifty on the bar and point my key fob toward where my Jaguar is parked.

“I’m on the way, baby,” I purr into my cell, “but I have to stop by the office to pick up my works.”

* * *

Kaycie Crawford—Attorney at Law, reads the brass sign on my storefront office in the Central West End. I enter through the security gate around back, close the blinds, and notice my phone blinking.

“Hello, hello! Ms. Crawford, this is Mr. Jacobsen from the Lindell Suites Condo Association. I need to talk to you about your back HOA fees. Our lawyers are about to file to foreclose. Please call me so we can work out a payment arrangement.”

I really don’t want to hear this shit right now so I shut off the machine. I got clients who want to pay me in dope, jewelry, or hot clothing from Neiman Marcus. They know I like to look good and a few of them know I like to get high. I have to find some money from somewhere fast. My $5,000 monthly allowance from the family trust fund isn’t due to hit my bank account for a couple of days. I can’t let them white folks set me out on the street.

I decide to take a hit before I head over to Michael’s. It won’t take me but five minutes to get there from here. Just one more hit . . . then another . . .

* * *

My iPhone won’t stop ringing and I’m frozen in the chair at my desk ignoring Michael’s picture when it pops up . . . Damn! It’s two hours later, and all the dope is gone.

“Kaycie, what’s up, baby? It’s twelve o’clock, I thought you would be here by now. Why didn’t you answer the damn phone?”

I tell him I forgot where I put my pipe and left my phone in the car.

“Yeah, right! So why do you sound like you got rocks in your mouth? But that’s okay, do me any kinda way. I’ve been sitting here waiting to get high with you, drink martinis, and have freaky sex, and you over there geekin’ all by yourself!”

“I’ll call Lance to bring me a sixteenth and then I’ll be over.”

“Forget it, Kaycie! I’m half-drunk, tired, and I’m going to bed. I’ll talk to you later.” Click.

Fuck him, then. Michael never has any money to put on a package anyway. I’m the one who buys the dope, and I bought that Grey Goose he got drunk on. Let me call Lance to see if he can bring me another one.

A half an hour passes and Lance hasn’t answered his phone. I’d go back to Steve Charles’s, but I know I look a mess after smoking a half-ounce of cocaine. In the office bathroom, I wash up and change into a turtleneck and jeans. I see the $2,000 leather coat I charged at Neiman’s last week in my closet, tagged and still in the plastic. I tear the plastic and the tags off and put it on, forgetting that I intended to take it back to the store.

The back door opens and Jimmy and Jeremy enter, swooning and recapping the wedding. Jimmy looks like a black James Bond in his Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo and his bow tie untied, and Jeremy’s in shirtsleeves with his jacket slung over his shoulder, both such beautiful men that a threesome fantasy flashes in, then out of my mind.

“Hey, Jimmy, what are you all doing here?” I ask, surprised.

“I left the directions to the East St. Louis after-party on my desk. How’s tricks at Steve Charles’s place?”

“Same old songs, but I like the vibe. I was just going to call you,” I lied. “Do you know where I can get a nice package this time of night?”

Jeremy says he wouldn’t mind having a little happy dust to take over to the party. Jimmy is aware of my habit and I know his extended family has connections, but this is the first time I’ve asked him about scoring any dope.

“I can take you over to my cousin’s on West Bentley. How much you want to spend?”

“I got about five hundred on me. You all want to go in with me?”

Jimmy is hesitant but Jeremy reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out three hundred-dollar bills.

“Yeah, I’m game, we need a little pick-me-up since we’re going over to the East Side.”

The lovebirds pile into the backseat of my Jaguar and Jimmy directs me over to the 3900 block of West Bentley. It’s one o’clock in the morning and the lounges are just closing. We park in front of a house with a dim porch light. The street is dark, the streetlight flickering, half-bare tree limbs hovering over the front yard in the early October chill.

“Didn’t they used to call this neighborhood the Bucket of Blood?” asks Jeremy.

“That’s when John’s Canteen was still open,” Jimmy says. “It used to be a lot of cuttin’ and shootin’ on this block. I haven’t been over here since I finished school. I worked hard to get out of this neighborhood, but if my baby wants some happy dust . . .” Jimmy kisses Jeremy. “Okay, give me your money and I’ll be right back.”

“Wait a minute, Jimmy,” I protest, “this is a lot of money we’re talking about spending. I wanna see what I’m buying. You think we can get a couple of ounces for eight hundred?”

“Kaycie, this is a known crack house. You have too much to lose if you’re caught transacting business here.”

“I’ve got too much to lose just sitting out in the car too! Anyway, it’s quiet.”

“Yeah, it is. That’s what scares me.”

“Well, I’m staying in the car,” says Jeremy. “I don’t want to get my tux dirty.”

“Jimmy, I’m comin’ in,” I insist.

“All right, all right, but don’t tell them your real name. Tell them your name is . . . Barbara.”

I follow Jimmy through the squeaking gate, a dog barking as it clangs shut. The front yard is devoid of vegetation except for a few tufts of weeds and fallen leaves. Loud music comes from inside and Jimmy knocks hard several times before the volume is lowered and a raspy voice bellows out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Jimmy, Wanda, open the door!”

“Jimmy who? I don’t know no damn Jimmy! What the fuck you want?”

“It’s Jimmy Mack, your cousin, fool. Open the damn door, it’s cold out here.”

Two deadbolts turn, a chain drops, a metal bar slides away, and the door opens to a warm, cozy living room. Keith Sweat’s “Make It Last Forever” plays in the background.

“Hey, Jimmy, what’s up? Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays,” Wanda says, turning one of the locks behind us. “You done got your education and stop comin’ by to hang out with us . . . Look at you, all dressed up. Where you goin’?”

“I’m on my way to a wedding after-party and we want to get a nice package to take with us.”

“Who is we?” she asks, peeping through the window shade on the front door. “This your woman?” she adds and snickers.

Wanda wears a bright yellow halter dress, a black silk flowered shawl, and a huge pistol grip sticks out of her cleavage. She’s holding a pint of cheap vodka smeared with red on the bottle’s mouth. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman, her hair’s pulled back tight in a tiny ponytail, and her lips are slathered with red lipstick.

“That’s Barbara. She’s a good friend of mine and she wants to comp a couple of ounces. I know you still dealin’ ’cause I see you still carrying Ole Ugly in your bosom.”

“A .357 ain’t no fashion accessory. I ain’t got that kinda weight here, but I can call Kenny. He’s just around the corner on Westbrook. You remember Kenny, don’t you?”

“You talkin’ about Little Kenny, Jackie’s youngest boy?”

“Yep. Me and him work together as a team. He runs the neighborhood.” Wanda calls him on her cell phone, walks toward the hallway mumbling into it, then comes back into the living room.

“Kenny was a smart little boy,” Jimmy comments, “I would have thought he’d be in college by now.”

“He is in college, goddamnit—street college!”

I start laughing and Wanda invites us to sit down, turns the volume back up on the CD player, and starts swaying to the moanings of Keith Sweat. I can’t stand Keith Sweat, but I bob my head to the music to act like I’m happy to be in this stuffy, quaintly decorated room.

“Is that your car, Jimmy?”

“It’s mine.”

“What kinda of car is that, uh . . . what’s your name again?”

“Her name is Barbara,” Jimmy answers, just in case I forgot.

“You look like money, Barbara. What you do for a livin’?”

Boom—boom, boom, boom, boom!

Before I can think of a lie, Wanda looks out the window of the front door and turns the deadlock. In walks Kenny, a tall, beautiful young man, well groomed, expensive cologne, solemn face. I can’t stop looking at him.

“Who is that sitting outside in that Jaguar, Wanda? I told you about people sitting outside looking like they waiting to cop.”

“Look, Killa, don’t be comin’ in here with that bullshit. He’s with Jimmy and them!”

“What’s up, Jimmy!” Kenny reaches out to slap him a manly handshake. “Ain’t seen you in a long time.”

“Yeah, well, I moved on to bigger and better things. I see you looking good, prosperous. How old are you now, nineteen, twenty?” Kenny doesn’t answer. “How’s your mama doin’?”

“She’s on disability, works part time at Nelson’s liquor store. She still lives around the corner.”

Kenny looks over at me then turns to Jimmy. “So what’s up?”

“You tell me. What’s with this Killa shit?”

“That’s what Wanda calls me. It keeps the scallywags in line.”

“We want to get a couple ounces, man . . . for eight bills.”

Kenny takes a long look at Jimmy with a smirk on his face. “All right, man, since you spending that kinda cash, come on to the back.”

As I stand up to follow them, Kenny pauses and turns to Jimmy: “Who is this?”

“That’s Barbara. She’s cool. She’s the one with the money.”

“Is that your Jag out there?”

“Yeah, it is.”

In the kitchen he lays down two large plastic sacks of powder on the glass table. I pick them up, open one, dampen my pinky with my tongue, and taste the product. I nod approval and count out eight hundred-dollar bills on the table. Kenny picks them up quickly, walks down the hallway, and exits, slamming the door. Wanda locks it behind him and comes back to the kitchen.

“Uh, what’s up, Jimmy?”

He knows exactly what she’s expecting. He opens his package, pulls one of his business cards from his inside jacket pocket, and scoops out a hefty portion of powder.

I see Wanda has baking soda sitting on the counter. “You mind if I rock this powder up?” I ask.

Wanda grabs a cigarette out of her pocket and lights it as she ponders the request. “So you one of those high-society crackheads who knows how to cook dope?”

“Don’t let my looks fool you, Wanda,” I answer. “I know my way around this shit.”

Jimmy balks and gives me an I’m not about to stay here look. “Wanda, let me talk to Barbara for a minute.”

Wanda leaves the room.

“Look, Kaycie. Me and Jeremy use powder, we don’t smoke that shit. How about you stay here to do what you got to do and I’ll take your car to the after-party. You can catch a cab home. Let me talk to Wanda. She’s cool. She ain’t gonna do nothing to you.”

I’m so eager for another hit, I don’t protest. Jimmy goes to the front room to talk to Wanda and soon they both come back to the kitchen.

“Jimmy, be careful with my car, hear? Let me have thirty dollars for cab fare and you can drop my car off at work.”

“Wanda, is that cool with you?” Jimmy asks.

“Yeah, it’s cool. I like your style, Barbara. You got class.”

* * *

My plan was to cook up the powder, leave some with Wanda, and catch a cab to Michael’s, but after listening to music, talking about our love lives, and drinking a fifth of rot-gut vodka, it’s four o’clock in the morning before I call a cab. I arrive home, shower, and get four hours of sleep before waking up. I call a cab to take me to the courthouse.

When I arrive there’s a long line of people waiting to be scanned for weapons and contraband. I stand in line with eight other lawyers with motions for continuances. At eleven thirty, I’m out of there and I call Jimmy to check who’s called.

“Lance returned your call this morning and a cashier’s check for ten thousand came from the Jeffersons for their son’s armed burglary case.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I usually bank the legal fees but right now I have to use it to keep afloat because of my recreational activities. Luckily, it’s enough to stop the foreclosure proceedings on my condo. Before I leave I get a call from Lance.

“Kaycie, one of my boys, Kenny Rollins, has been locked up for murder. He’s downtown and needs a lawyer.”

“I’m on the way,” I tell him, and then I ask Lance about Kenny.

“I’ve been knowing him since he was a little boy. His mother has been struggling with drugs just about all his life. Kenny has to pay her rent and bills to keep her from getting kicked out. He’s been trying to beat a case where he claims a detective name Lakewood planted a bag of crack in his pocket when he couldn’t find any other reason to detain him during what the detective called a ‘routine traffic stop.’”

An hour later I’m led into the holding cell. Kenny’s perfectly featured face is scratched, swollen with dried blood in the corners of his mouth, and oily sweat stains smear both sides of his face. He looks like a defeated pit bull, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, his hands cuffed. He glances up when the guard opens the cell and stares at me, stunned.

“Hey, Kenny. I’m Kaycie Crawford. Lance called me to represent you. What happened to your face?”

“Don’t worry about it, Barbara—or whatever the hell your name is. I sure don’t need a motherfucking crackhead for a lawyer.”

“You’d be surprised how many crackhead police, lawyers, and judges are out there. One thing for certain, you’re the one caught up in jail, not me. Now, do you want me to help you or not?”

Kenny looks at me again, humbled at the possibility of being sent up. “I guess you must be okay if Lance called you.”

“Lance is one of my oldest clients. You see, he hasn’t been convicted of anything yet. So talk to me.”

“The police found one of my customers dead in the gangway in the 3900 block of Westbrook. Her name is Maxine Robinson and her husband, Grady, is one of my associates.”

“How did she pay for her dope?”

“She was a substitute teacher over at the Delmar Middle School by day and a dope fiend by night. Grady is a good shade-tree mechanic, but he can’t keep a job in a shop very long.”

“Why is that?”

“Grady works on the hustlers’ cars in the alley, sometimes for cash, sometimes for hits, sometimes to pay his dope bills. Maxine was the one with the steady income.”

“How did she die?”

“She was beat to death. The police showed me a picture with her face bashed in and her body all twisted. They say they found my fingerprints on her purse there on the ground.”

“How did your fingerprints wind up on her purse?”

“The goddamn police is lying! They ain’t found my fingerprints. They just trying to set me up because they ain’t never caught me ridin’ or walkin’ dirty.”

“What do you mean, riding or walking dirty?”

“They’ve been trying to catch me slinging dope for the past year. I don’t walk around with that shit on me. I don’t carry it when I drive my car or when I’m hangin’ out on the block.”

“So you’re telling me they manufactured fingerprints to put on her purse? Come on now, stop lying. Out of all the folks who hang out in that neighborhood, how did they pick you out? Have you ever been arrested before?”

“Nope. For the longest time they didn’t even know what I looked like, they just knew the name Kenny, nicknamed Killa. It wasn’t until that narc Lakewood pulled me over and planted that dope on me that he found out who I was. They booked me in night court, locked me up.”

“You still haven’t told me how your fingerprints got on Maxine’s purse.”

“Maxine owed me a hundred dollars and she was ducking and dodging me for a week. She got paid last Friday. When I caught up with her ass Friday afternoon, she come talkin’ ’bout she ain’t got it. She was higher than a jet pilot. She had just got off work, it wasn’t even four o’clock yet. I slapped the shit out of her ass and snatched her purse and emptied it out on the ground, picked up her wallet, and took out her debit card. I hauled her ass to the ATM around the corner at the liquor store and I got my money.”

“So Kenny, where did you take her then?”

“Nowhere. I left her ass in the parking lot and drove off. They got cameras, they’ll show that I drove off. Once I got my money, I was through with her ass. I got no reason to kill her. She’s still one of my best customers. Hell, she got a job.”

“How hard did you hit her, Kenny? Was she bleeding?”

“Yeah, she was bleeding and her lip swelled up, but I didn’t care. The customers saw me dragging her to the cash machine, but they looked away, minding their own business.”

“Well, now you got a witnesses who saw you dragging a women into the store bleeding and swollen around the mouth. That’s not good at all. The police say she was killed late Friday night or early this morning. Where were you?”

“I spent the night at my baby mama’s house.”

“What’s her name and where does she live?”

“Her name is Fulani James. She lives in the Ville on St. Louis Avenue.”

“Kenny, I charge $2,500 for a retainer and $1,000 per day. Can you handle that?”

“I’ll get you your money. Just don’t you smoke it up.”

Just then, a deputy sheriff arrives to take him to his arraignment, and so I miss my chance to tell Kenny to go fuck himself.

Kenny is remanded. Lance is in the courtroom and suggests I go home with him so that we can talk more about the case.

When we get to Lance’s loft, he goes into his bedroom, comes out counting thirty-five hundred-dollar bills on the spot, and lays them on the kitchen counter.

“Kenny’s pretty face and good manners fool a lot of people. He can be treacherous,” Lance says. “He tells me he wants to get into the real estate business.”

“Do you think he’s innocent?”

“Kaycie, that’s not my concern. My concern is that you win this case. I am fond of Kenny and I want to see him make something of himself.”

* * *

Jaimie Brown is a private investigator. I still owe her $2,000 for my last case and she won’t answer my calls. I leave a message telling her I have her money and after thirty minutes she calls me back.

“Okay, so you have the two grand you owe me, but I want my fee for this case up front. So what’s up?”

I fill her in on the case. “The police report shows that an old drunk named Leroy saw Kenny slapping Maxine Robinson in the alley Friday afternoon. Jimmy’s cousin Wanda lives around the corner. She may know something.”

The street doesn’t look so scary in the daylight. Wanda’s sitting on her porch with an older woman, both of them drinking beer and looking upset.

Jaimie pulls up on her black motorcycle, clad in black leather from head to toe with a black helmet featuring a Black Power logo on the back. She removes her helmet to reveal her bushed hair in all its glory.

“Hey, what’s up, Barbie Doll?” chimes Wanda. “Mama, that’s Barbara, the one I was telling you about.”

Jaimie drops her head to hide her snickering. She knows that I’ve been over here getting high.

Wanda introduces her mother as Ms. Connor and we cordially greet each other. “We haven’t seen or heard from Kenny in a couple of days,” she says, assuming I’m there to score more dope.

“Wanda, my name isn’t Barbara, it’s Kaycie, Kaycie Crawford.

“What you mean your name ain’t Barbara? So what the hell? You the police?”

“Kenny is locked up for killing Maxine Robinson. I’m his lawyer and this is my investigator, Jaimie Hunter. Did you know Maxine Robinson?”

“Yeah. She’s dead. They found her beat to death in the gangway on Westbrook.”

“They think Kenny killed her.”

“Kenny didn’t kill Maxine! Anybody coulda killed her. She was always getting high in the alley hiding from her no-good, greasy-ass husband, Grady.”

“Be quiet, Wanda! You talk too much,” her mother says.

Wanda continues: “That narc Lakewood’s been terrorizing all the women in the neighborhood, taking their dope and pushing them around, trying to get them to rat Kenny out. He coulda killed Maxine.”

“Wanda, you need to shut up telling everybody’s business in the neighborhood,” Ms. Connor says. “Whoever killed her won’t appreciate you running your mouth.” She gets up from her seat on the porch and goes into the house.

As Wanda speculates to Jaimie about Grady and everyone else who lives in the neighborhood, I follow Ms. Connor into the shotgun house, peer into the empty living room, and hear noise coming from the next room. Quietly, I ease down the hall to the adjacent room to find Ms. Connor ransacking a bedroom. The bed is disheveled, dresser drawers open with contents tossed.

“Can I help your find something, Ms. Connor?” I ask, startling her.

“You can get yourself hurt sneakin’ up on people, young lady!”

Jaimie follows Wanda into the house as she promises to kill anybody who says Kenny murdered Maxine. Seeing her bedroom torn up she turns to me, exposing the pistol grip in her bosom.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” She reaches to pull out Ole Ugly but hesitates when Jaimie opens her leather jacket to expose a holstered .50-caliber revolver—silver with a black waffle-textured grip.

“Relax, baby. I got a license for mine,” Jaimie says.

“I came in and found your mother tossing your bedroom,” I tell her. “What do you suppose she’s looking for—Kenny’s stash?”

“All right, Barbara, or whatever your name is, you can get the fuck outta my house. Biker bitch, get her ass outta here.”

“Jaimie, why don’t we go around the corner on Westbrook to see if anybody heard or seen anything Friday night.”

Jaimie glides past Wanda, winks at her, then walks to the curb and starts her motorcycle, revving it up loud as she makes a U-turn toward the corner.

“I’ll kill that bitch,” Wanda mumbles under her breath.

“You’ll answer to Lance if you try. You know who Lance is, don’t you?”

Surprised that I know the man, Wanda cautiously replies, “Yeah, I know who he is.”

I join Jaimie around the corner and we talk to the neighbors and folks sitting out on their porches. Nobody claims to have seen anything.

An elderly man dressed in three layers of clothing with the smell of coal oil is collecting cans along the curb in front of a boarded-up house. I approach him with a flirtatious demeanor.

“Hey, how you doin’? My name is Kaycie. You live around here?”

“Sometimes I sleep in there,” he says, pointing to the empty structure. “I got it set up all nice and cozy and warm. You wanna come in?”

“Maybe next time. I heard Maxine Robinson got killed around back last night. Did you happen to see or hear anybody getting beat up?”

He looks over both shoulders and sees that the neighbors are watching him. “I ain’t seen or heard nothing!” he shouts, shaking his head.

“Do you know where Grady Robinson lives?”

“He lives in Miss Freddie’s house down there on this side of the street, way up on a hill with the white porch.”

When we pull up in front of the Robinsons’ house, children with no coats and runny noses play in the front yard. We climb the steep steps and the kids run into the house. I ring the bell and a voice yells that the door is open, and we enter the hallway.

There are folks in the front room playing spades. The players are slapping their cards down and talking shit. The air is thick with tobacco, marijuana smoke, and stale beer, while Johnnie Taylor’s “Last Two Dollars” plays on the radio.

When Jaimie asks if anybody’s heard or seen anything, they shake their heads, barely paying her any attention.

Grady walks up behind me in the room’s doorway, too close for comfort. I stand my ground.

“Hello, sexy. I hear you’re looking for me.” Then he turns to Jaimie and says, “I can tell by the way you’re dressed that that’s your bike out there.”

“I’m Kaycie Crawford, attorney at law. Where were you last Friday night, early Saturday morning?” I ask.

He takes a few steps back and his flirtatious body language turns defensive. “I was in the house asleep by ten o’clock Friday night after a long day working on cars.”

“When was the last time you saw Maxine?”

“I saw her when she left for work Friday morning, but I didn’t see her after that and I wasn’t looking for her because I knew she was probably out in the alley somewhere geekin’ like she always do. I didn’t know what happened until the police came knocking on the door early this morning.”

“Grady. Grady, come here,” his bedridden mother calls from the next room. “Who is that out in the hallway? Tell her to come in.”

In the bedroom I tell Ms. Freddie we’re in the neighborhood investigating Maxine’s murder. She orders Grady out of the room and invites me to sit. The only chair in the room is her wheelchair. She tells me to come close because she knows her son is eavesdropping.

Ms. Freddie says, “There’s a saying around here: what goes on in this neighborhood stays in this neighborhood. But that ain’t right when it comes to somebody getting killed. I heard some loud talking in the alley behind the house last night ’cause I like to have my window cracked open to let some cool air in.

“I heard some men fussing about somebody talking to the police about Kenny. I think I heard Maxine’s voice screaming that she didn’t say nothin’ to nobody but they kept on hollering and then there were sounds like cans and bottles falling and banging on the dumpsters. Soon after, I can hear moaning and I think that was when Maxine was getting killed.”

“Were you able to see who it was?”

“No. I can’t get up out of the bed without help. I have to call Grady or one of the kids when I need to go to the bathroom. When it got quiet, I heard some noise in the gangway, but I didn’t think nothing of it. Sometimes, it’s just Maxine back there smoking her dope.

“One thing I know for sure: Ms. Connor, who lives around the corner on West Bentley, sold Grady a $100,000 insurance policy on Maxine six months ago, and I’m just hoping that Grady hasn’t done anything stupid.”

* * *

When Jaimie and I return to Wanda’s house we find Ms. Connor in the front yard barbecuing. “Ms. Connor, I know you sold Grady a life-insurance policy on Maxine. Why didn’t you want to tell us that? Don’t you know that makes Grady a prime suspect?”

“It don’t necessarily,” she counters. “Grady owes me $5,000 I loaned him for his car repair business. He smoked some of it and invested some with Kenny to buy cocaine. I thought Kenny would make up for Grady’s loss. That didn’t happen. So no, I don’t give a shit about helping Kenny because in my mind, he owes me too.”

“You and Grady have more to gain from Maxine’s death than Kenny,” says Jaimie. “You know we will subpoena you to testify about the insurance.”

“You can go to hell. I ain’t testifying about shit and you need to leave my yard before Wanda gets back. Folks who get hurt in this neighborhood end up in a dumpster out in the alley.”

* * *

Back at the office Jimmy hands me the police files and the coroner’s report. Maxine was bludgeoned with a baseball bat and at least two people stomped and kicked her body until it was a sack of bones. The report also states that she was killed in the alley and dragged into the gangway between the Robinsons’ house and the vacant house next door.

If Kenny says that he left her at the gas station then we’ve got to figure out where she went from there and who was the last person to see her alive. The time of death is estimated between eleven p.m. and two a.m. Saturday morning. Jaimie stops examining the crime scene photos and speaks.

“First of all, Kaycie, before I say anything about this stuff, I want my two grand plus my daily rate. That comes out to $2,150.”

I hand her an envelope of cash.

“Thank you.” She shakes her head. “They are crazy over there on Westbrook. They act like they don’t care about Maxine. And that Grady looked me up and down like he wanted to lick the leather off my body.”

“He’s not that bad looking if he wasn’t so dirty,” I say. “For all we know, Grady could be thinking he’s going to collect the money, not realizing that he may be the next one they find dead. He could pay back what he owes Ms. Connor when the policy pays out in six months, but I can’t see her being satisfied with a repayment of a measly five grand, even with 100 percent interest.”

* * *

Sunday, I go to visit Kenny. He doesn’t look so good. His face has been cleaned up, but he’s tired and haggard.

“Kenny, what do you know about Ms. Connor writing a $100,000 insurance policy on Maxine for Grady?”

“She’s got her broker’s license, and she’s written insurance policies for a lot of folks in the neighborhood.”

“It doesn’t seem like Grady is responsible enough to keep up with the monthly premiums.”

“Ms. Connor pays the premiums for him and he gives her money every now and then when she sees that he’s been working steady,” Kenny replies. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was plotting on Grady and Maxine, or even me, for that matter, since I owe her about two thousand.”

“Why would you owe her any money?”

“Sometimes she fronts me money to buy dope when I’m short on cash. She’s been hounding me about it and I think she ratted me out to the narc.”

“Lakewood?”

“Right. He hassles the prostitutes, takes their dope, and forces them to do things in exchange for not locking them up. Ms. Connor is behind on protection payments to him. There have been so many police calls from her tenants, she can’t afford any more trouble.”

“How does Wanda fit into all this drama?”

“Wanda has no income other than selling dope for me. She either smokes it up or gives it away to the hookers when they come by the house late at night. I slapped her around a few times, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I figure that Ms. Connor should be responsible for Wanda’s debt.”

Back at the office I call Lance and tell him I need to see Kenny’s girlfriend.

* * *

When Fulani James arrives, she’s tastefully dressed in a sharp leather jacket and a black wool dress with a leather belt. Kenny Jr., about five years old, is looking handsome in a wool tweed sports jacket with a turtleneck and khakis.

“Is this Kenny Jr.?”

“Yeah, this is me!” the boy replies.

“You both look really nice. Have you all been to church?”

“Thank you. Yes,” she answers. “I’m worried about Kenny getting convicted. My baby needs his daddy.”

“Do you believe he’s innocent, Ms. James?”

“You can call me Fulani, Miss Kaycie. Yeah, I believe he’s innocent, but I also know he’s got a temper. I told him if he ever hit me, I’ll shoot his ass, and he knows I’m not playing.”

“Fulani, where do you work?”

“The gas company. I’m going to St. Louis U, majoring in business administration. I’ve been trying to convince Kenny to stop this dope slinging and enroll in school. He has a good head for business. And he’s a good father.”

“Fulani, can you prove that you were with Kenny last Saturday night?”

“Yeah. We took Little Kenny to see a movie downtown after dinner at the Bread Company. Afterward, we came home and Kenny stayed until the next morning.”

“Do you have any receipts?”

“Nope. Kenny paid cash and I didn’t keep any receipts or ticket stubs.” Fulani is beginning to sound discouraged. I ask her if she has a family photo and she hands one over.

“Fulani, I’m going to have my investigator show your picture to the employees at the cinema. Somebody will remember you all.”

When they’re gone I call Jaimie so she can get the photo and find witnesses at the movie theater.

* * *

Later that afternoon I drive to Westbrook with Lance. We pull up around the corner on Davenport and Lance sees one of his “sales reps.”

“What’s up, Big Rush? What’s been happening around here?”

“Running from Lakewood. He’s been hassling folks more than usual lately. I thought you and him were cool.”

“We were until he tried to raise his price. I warned his ass I could have his job at any time, but he don’t believe it.”

I butt in. “Hey, Big Rush, have you noticed anybody in the neighborhood spending more money than usual lately?”

Lance looks at me sideways. “Big Rush, this is Kaycie Crawford, Kenny’s lawyer.”

“Now that you mention it, Troy and Tyrone have been buying dope, drinking cognac, and partying on Vandalia up over the doughnut shop the past few days. They’re both usually begging to run errands for us so we can give them a hit or two. Troy told me he won the lottery.”

We drive over two blocks to the corner building. The doughnut shop is closed. Lance knocks hard on the door, then he looks up at the window to see somebody peeking through the crooked blinds. He knocks again, turns the doorknob—the door is unlocked. We climb the stairs and find Troy sprawled out asleep across the bed with a topless woman sitting at a table smoking crack while roaches crawl up and down the wall next to her.

“Troy, wake your ass up!” Lance snaps, then turns to the woman. “And you—get your ass out!”

Dumbstruck, she throws on her coat, grabs her pipe, scrapes some crumbs into her hand, and runs down the steps, slamming the door on the way out. I look on the table to see if there’s anything left.

Lance grabs Troy by his dirty sagging jeans and pulls him off the bed. “Troy, I said wake your ass up!”

Troy, still half-dazed, answers, “Wha . . . what . . . ? What you want, Lance? How the hell you get into my house?”

“Where’s Tyrone? Where in the hell y’all get all this money you’ve been spending?”

“I hit the lottery, man!”

“Oh yeah? What were your numbers?”

When Troy starts stuttering, Lance grabs him by the throat. “You lying, Troy. What you know about what happen to Maxine?”

“How the fuck I know? That crazy fool is always hidin’ in the alley smokin’ her dope. She don’t ever share. I’m glad her ass is dead.”

The downstairs door opens and slams and Tyrone runs upstairs only to find Lance waiting for him next to the doorway. Lance throws him down on the floor next to Troy and pulls out his nine millimeter.

“Tyrone, where Troy get all this money?”

Tyrone doesn’t respond, glancing over at Troy as if he might answer for him.

“Tyrone, I’m going to ask you one more time: where did all the money come from?” Then Lance fires his gun into the dirty mattress and they both start hollering. I damn near scream, but I don’t dare.

Tyrone yells, “Ms. Connor gave us the money!”

“Shut the hell up, Tyrone,” says Troy.

“Fuck you, Troy. I ain’t about to get shot covering for your mama. If I go to jail, I’ll still be alive. It ain’t like I ain’t never been in jail. Look here, Lance, Ms. Connor gave us five hundred apiece if we take down Maxine. Troy hit her in the head with the bat and we both stomped her ass and dragged her into Grady’s gangway.”

“Lance, call your contacts on the force and tell them to pick these two up.”

* * *

Kenny is released after a week, his bail still pending on the drug charge that Lakewood trapped him on. When Kenny comes out of the elevator into the lobby, he hugs Lance. He grabs me and kisses me on the lips and softly says, “Thank you,” then runs out the door to where Fulani and Kenny Jr. wait outside.

* * *

“Kaycie, you should pay me for cracking your case. Jaimie wasn’t nowhere around.”

“Man, you need to quit,” says Jaimie. “You know I talked to some of those dudes over there on Westbrook and all they wanted to do was grab me until they saw I was strapped. By the way, Kaycie, I will be sending you my bill.”

“I’ll need your help with Kenny on this drug charge. Let’s go to Steve Charles’s for dinner and drinks to celebrate—my treat. The sky’s the limit.”

After a sumptuous steak dinner accompanied by several martinis, Rémy Martins, and an endless glass of club soda with lime for Jaimie, we all go our separate ways, Lance to his loft apartment, Jaimie to her boyfriend’s house.

And me, I start to call Michael but hang up instead. Then I head over to Wanda’s on West Bentley and knock on the door. I can hear that damn Keith Sweat moaning and groaning. I knock harder.

“Who is it?” Wanda screams in her deep raspy voice.

“It’s me, Barbara.”