The Pledge, page 10
“Whitehurst Avenue,” I say.
My partner looks at me incredulously for a moment. “Ah, hell no.”
*
Several years ago, Seth and I worked a buy-and-bust in front of a tiny, nondescript convenience store named J’s Food Mart. That area in Northeast Dallas, over a twenty-year period, had come to resemble a poisonous jelly donut—the outer rim of run-down apartments occupied mostly with hardworking and underserved families. The toxic center, represented by the convenience store and surrounding strip mall and parking lots, was filled at all times with prostitutes, high-dollar crapshooters, and gangbangers. And, of course, drug dealers. Lots and lots of dealers. The DEA and ATF had been working to help clean things up, but most of the busts were still left to Dallas police.
A spate of shootings fueled by competition between gangs had caused the death of twin toddlers—the bullets piercing the thin walls of their bedroom—as well as a father of eight children. The gunfight involved at least two dozen rival gangbangers and was commenced in broad daylight on the stretch of Whitehurst Avenue in front of the food mart. The shoot-out was the tipping point. The chief did a major sweep and then set up a special task force to remove the remaining dealers with buy-and-busts.
Perversely, it wasn’t just the poor and desperate buying the drugs. It had become a mecca, and a rite of passage, for thrill-seeking rich teenagers. The high was as much about walking away from the strip mall alive as it was from the drugs. Ironically, because the dealers didn’t want to destroy the darling little cash cows, the kids were probably safer on Whitehurst than in other disreputable neighborhoods.
The dealer we had set up was a guy with a long record and, according to the pavement princesses whom he pimped, a very short fuse. He was also a speed freak and as a result extremely nervous and paranoid. His street name was Jizzy. His favorite turn of phrase being “That’s right. Jizzy all over you now.” Har-har-har.
I had made several small buys from him, posing as a onetime rich Highland Park resident brought low through an addiction to Oxy. My hair unwashed, my clothes torn and dirty, I made a pitiful spectacle, though it didn’t stop Jizzy from trying to talk me into working for him. We had set him up to do one last larger buy in front of J’s Food Mart—several hundred Oxy for ten bucks each. When I leaned over to check the number of pills in the plastic bag, he slid his hand down my shirt. Reflexively, I pushed his arm away, knocking the bag and most of the pills onto the sidewalk.
He freaked, pulled his pistol, and, screaming profanities at me, pressed the barrel against my head. The world shrank to a narrow beam directed at the convenience store sign, and I wondered if my last irrational thought would be Does the ‘J’ stand for Jizzy?
I took a ragged breath and said, “How about fifteen dollars a pill? And I do all the picking up.”
And Jizzy, without missing a beat, tucked his gun back into his pants and said enthusiastically, “Yeah, baby, I’m all over you now.”
In a gesture of renewed goodwill, he actually helped me pick up some of the pills. I completed the buy, and a rattled group of nearby undercovers, including Seth, made the arrest.
Seth said to me later, “I really thought for a moment I was going to have to get me a new partner.”
I was sitting in his car, still shaking from nerves. “Yeah, well, you may still want to. I think I shit my pants back there.”
*
Now we exit I-635 at Skillman and drive the short distance past sprawling apartment buildings to the Whitehurst Avenue strip center that accommodates a lavandería, a dollar store, a bail bondsman’s office, and a pet supply store. J’s Food Mart is closed, boards covering the windows. A piece of graffiti over one of the planks reads, IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU PROBLY DON’T LIVE HERE.
We park and sit on the far side of the nearly abandoned lot, observing the comings and goings of people shopping, and hope not to get made as cops. At least not right away. Before we left the station, I had borrowed one of Seth’s extra T-shirts that he always keeps in his desk. Nothing shouts plainclothes detective louder than a blue blazer, slacks with a wide belt substantial enough to support a badge and holster, and sensible shoes.
To fill the time, I tell him about my worries for Mary Grace, and about Elizabeth’s slow progress in warming up to me. Seth tells me about his new girlfriend, Patty. They’ve been dating three months, which is quite a record for my partner. He usually goes through women like a shark through a school of mackerel, but maybe he’s met “the one.”
“Only problem is,” he says, his eyes scanning the storefronts, “she’s got cats.”
“Maybe they’ll grow on you, partner.”
“I’ll tell you what’s grown on me. Cat hair, and lots of it.”
I pull one long strand of blond hair from his black T-shirt and hold it up to the light. “This belongs to Tabby, does it?”
Seth laughs. “She’s fine with my not drinking. Works out a lot, eats healthy. I think she’s good for me.” He catches me giving him a look. “What?”
“Imagine that,” I say. “Bad boy turned good. Just don’t start taking yoga classes. We’ll have to stage a second intervention.”
Seth is looking at something intently through the windshield.
“What is it?” I ask.
He points to the lavandería in the middle of the strip. Earlier we’d watched a woman with two small kids load up a washer with dirty clothes and then leave again. She’d been the only one in the place. But now there are three men inside, and they’re not doing laundry. They’re standing at the large plate-glass window, their arms crossed over their chests, looking at us.
“They must have come in the back entrance,” Seth says. He pulls a pair of binoculars out of the center console and focuses on the men. He then passes them to me. “Take a look at the middle guy.”
The man in the middle is taller than the other two and quite slender. He’s wearing a V-neck T-shirt. On one side of his neck is tattooed a large X; on the other side, the number 8. Barrio 18.
A sudden hard rap on the passenger-side window startles us both. It’s a kid about ten or eleven years old. He makes a motion for me to roll down my window. When I do, he hands me a piece of paper and then bolts away.
The handwritten text on the paper reads I’m watching you. I’ve seen the handwriting before. It’s the same as on the note that Evangeline sent me last January when she returned my Saint Michael medallion. The one she’d taken after kidnapping me.
I snatch the binoculars up again and focus on the tall man inside the laundry. He makes a gun with his fingers, his thumb as the trigger. He directs his hand at me, as though taking aim, and fires.
“Hola Flaco,” I whisper.
Seth calls for backup, but by the time the patrol cars arrive, the three men have gone, having retreated quietly through some rear exit.
I notify the rest of the team, as well as Special Agent Don Haslett’s office, that we’ll be first concentrating on the area in and around the Whitehurst strip mall. Flaco’s territory will be wider than this section of Dallas, but he’s in my backyard. The strip mall is only six miles from my house.
Seth and I do a walk-through of the lavandería. We don’t find anything other than some discarded cigarette butts, empty detergent packets, and unclaimed articles of clothing.
Something shiny on the floor catches my eye: a crumpled cigar band. I scoop it up with a tissue and show it to Seth. It’s a Baccarat Gordo, a popular Honduran cigar brand.
“Well, well,” I say, pocketing the band. “Our skinny friend likes to smoke fat cigars. Let’s see if we can pull any prints off this.”
“Now, wasn’t this more fun than doing paperwork?” Seth asks.
I resist the urge to do a jig. “You have no idea.”
Chapter 12
The House
Monday, September 15, 2014
I pull into the driveway, taking note of the manned unmarked police car a few houses down. Before going home, I’d first circled our block and was relieved to spot a second patrol car with two officers watching the entrance to the alleyway. Our front-to-back surveillance protection, in addition to our internal home-security system. The lieutenant hadn’t wasted any time notifying the deputy chief of the North Central Division of the threat made to me and mine by Evangeline Roy. Cops don’t like it when other cops are threatened. It’s only for seven days, but I’m grateful for the extra eyes, nonetheless. I give the undercover in the front a subtle wave and walk into the house.
James Earle is on the floor in the living room, belly down, making faces at Elizabeth, who is strapped into a rocking seat, laughing unreservedly as only a chubby seven-month-old infant can. She’d also, at some point, gotten a good grasp of his well-greased hair, because it’s standing up as though he’d stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. Her hands are still glistening with aromatic styling gel. He grins at me sheepishly and sits up, smoothing back his hair.
“Hey, Red,” he rasps. “How’s it going? Any word about Mary Grace?”
I sit down next to him. The baby has stopped laughing, and she gives me her best side-eye.
“Not yet,” I say. “The PI called me earlier today. They’re trying.”
“You see our cop friends outside?” he asks. “I thought I was going to get my head blown off when I pulled up in front of the house. Fortunately they talked to Connie and got it straightened out. Those detectives weren’t fooling around.”
“Good to know. We’ve also got two patrolmen by the alleyway in back.”
“Well, that should make you feel a little safer. I volunteered to sleep on the couch for a few nights. Help keep Connie company during the day.”
I try to hide a smile. Connie’s an attractive single woman, and at least thirty years younger than James. “That a new shirt you’re wearing?” I ask him, teasingly.
At that moment Connie walks in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Hey, you’re home,” she says. “Jackie said she’d be a little late at the hospital.”
She sits next to Elizabeth, who looks at her with wide-eyed adoration. I should be overjoyed that the baby has bonded so strongly with her caregiver. But I feel the sharp jab of jealousy. Or maybe, if I’m being entirely honest, it’s closer to the sting of resentment. It was love at first sight between child and nanny. At this rate, I may need to be satisfied with a reluctant hug.
James Earle is now looking at Connie with frank appreciation as well, his leathered face softened by the renewed flame of hopefulness. I feel guilty for allowing such petty thoughts. He’s always been there for Jackie and me with hardly a thought for himself.
Standing up, I say, “I’m going to change. James, you know you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like. But I think we’ll be okay for the night.”
I look for a moment at the two of them seated on either side of Elizabeth, laughing and talking, completely at ease with each other. A long-repressed memory of Uncle Benny strikes me. Benny, at our house in Brooklyn, sitting at the table with my mother, laughing and talking. Tea and poppy-seed cake on the table between them. The smoke from my mother’s cigarette curling through the air like a welcome banner. I stand at the entry to the kitchen, staring at my handsome uncle still in his police uniform, and for the millionth time I wish that he were my father, not the angry drunk married to my mother.
I’m fourteen years old, tall and gangly, with unruly red hair, pale skin that refuses to tan, and already a complete awareness of my lack of romantic interest in boys. But there are no adequate words to describe my devotion to Detective Sergeant Bernard Rhyzyk. He faces me briefly and winks, and then turns back to my mother.
I listen to them talking for a while longer, relishing the convivial wash of welcomed, familiar company, watching my mother’s finger gently tracing the rim of her teacup. It’s unsettling, this sensual circling of fragile porcelain, saved only for special occasions. I look at my mother’s slanting eyes, her smiling mouth, and the realization, like a pole slammed into my head, comes to me: she’s in love with him…and he with her.
My first emotions toward this understanding are soaring, jubilant, victorious—and more than a little vengeful. This would deservedly hurt my father. And then, hard on the heels of those first thoughts, is the terrible knowledge that, in retaliation, Phillip Rhyzyk would do more than hurt his brother and wife. He would kill them.
I wanted to call to them, to warn them of this danger. Tell them that if I could see it, then certainly my father could too. I stood in an agony of silence until Uncle Benny thanked his sister-in-law for the tea, gave me a quick hug, and walked out the front door.
James Earle is saying something to me.
“You all right?” he asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine. Just remembered something I’d forgotten.”
*
When Jackie returns from the hospital, I tell her of this memory. We’re eating a late supper together in the kitchen, the baby sleeping in her crib. James Earle left soon after Connie, but not before pulling me aside and asking my opinion about dying his gray hair dark again. I assured him he was a silver fox, and he left with a smile on his lips.
Jackie, ever the romantic, has dimmed the kitchen lights so she can light a few candles. She’s changed into a loose shirt that falls off one shoulder, exposing her rose tattoo at the collarbone. Her hair is still damp from the shower and falls in waves around her neck. No matter how badly my day has gone, looking at Jackie by candlelight smooths out all the rough edges.
“Why do you think I buried that memory for so many years?” I ask. “It seems a revelation like that would have stuck with me.”
“Well,” Jackie says, toying with her fork, “you said that your father finding out about it would have gone badly for your mother, and for Benny.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You were being protective of them. Your father was a dangerous man, and you made sure he wouldn’t find out from you by burying that knowledge.”
“I think remembering it might have given me solace that my mom had at least found a little joy in her life.”
Jackie pours more wine into my glass. “Was Benny ever married?”
“For ten years,” I say. “Aunt Mary. I was pretty young when she died of a stroke, but I remember her being a really nice lady.”
“And he never remarried?”
I shake my head. “He kept a photo of Mary on his desk always. It was on his bedside table in the hospital when he died.” For a moment I stare into the candle flame, wondering whatever happened to the picture of his wife. His few remaining personal items had been mailed to me after his death, but I don’t recall ever receiving the photograph.
Jackie stands behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. “You’re sad,” she whispers in my ear and kisses my cheek. “Leave the dishes. Come to bed with me.”
*
Later, I watch Jackie sleeping, curled on her side, her eyelids fluttering in dream mode. I can’t imagine my life without her. Without her love, her understanding, her passion. And I wonder what it must have been like for my mother to have had so little joy in her life, apart from whatever happiness she gleaned from her two children—one of whom, my brother, committed suicide in his twenties. And the other one destroying any hope of grandchildren. I can only think she would have delighted in holding Elizabeth. And she would have been more than a little amused by my ward’s unenthusiastic responses to me, Helen Nowak’s wild, risk-taking, won’t-back-down daughter.
It’s not that I disliked the idea of having my own children so much as I didn’t like the idea of anyone’s children. I was always the asshole who sighed loudly whenever anyone boarded a plane with a whimpering child, or scowled at the kid having a temper tantrum in a store. Who glared fiercely at parents who couldn’t control their screaming brats in a restaurant. No wonder Elizabeth recoiled from me. Babies are canny. Closer to beasts than to human beings. They can smell disapproval from a hundred yards away.
My mother, on the other hand, adored babies, and never passed up an opportunity to coo over one. A melody begins to play in my head; a lullaby sung to us when we were little. I whisper the words, “Oj lulaj, lulaj, Siwe, oczka stulaj.…”
Go to sleep, go to sleep, close your blue eyes…
The very act of humming the song begins to make me drowsy. I snuggle closer to Jackie, and, breathing in her scent, fall into a restless sleep.
Chapter 13
Dallas Police Department, North Central Division
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
I’ve directed the team—Craddock, Ryan, Philbo, Esparza, and Seth—to meet collectively at the station every morning before dispersing out onto the streets, at least until we get a fix on either Flaco’s location or Evangeline Roy’s.
I point to the large map detailing the division districts in the greater Dallas area. “DPD Patrol Units, sector two-forty, will handle the on-the-street canvassing in and around Whitehurst Avenue, where we were yesterday. I want this team to spot-focus on some individual areas closer to us. And I’d like all of you to check in personally, face-to-face, with any CI you’ve got. No more phone calls, unless it’s them calling you with any sightings or updates.”
I pass around a printout of some hot spots. “You’re all aware of DPD’s most recent TAAG posting.”
Started in 2008, the Targeted Action Area Grid is a statistical data-gathering program directed by the chief of police to highlight neighborhoods in Dallas where conditions are favorable for crimes to occur. Released daily, it compiles relevant information such as arrests, calls for service, specific crimes committed, and known-offender locations as indicators for marshaling maximum resources to probable high-crime areas. This year there are thirty such areas in Dallas.
“Because of where Flaco was sighted,” I say, “I’ve narrowed the TAAG locations down to this general triangle: 635 to the east; US 75 to the west; and to the south, I-30. The three areas I’ve targeted are the Five Points, in particular Vickery Meadow, the Forest and Audelia area, and the Baylor University Hospital area, focusing along Gaston Avenue. The lieutenant has already requested up the chain for more money for our CIs. We want to let as many contacts as possible know that there’s monetary reward for productive leads.
