CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sienna

  I found Calderon's car parked outside a house a little east of Nashville at the address he gave me. It was in Mount Juliet, a suburb with a population of about 40,000. I found it in a middle-class neighborhood in front of a white clapboard one-story.

  His car was empty, so I knocked on the door figuring he must be inside. A black man in his early thirties in a button-down shirt and thin tie with a single Windsor knot opened it. His black pants and black shoes made him look like either he was heading to a funeral or maybe about to knock on doors for the Jehovah's Witnesses.

  “Oh, wow, it is you,” he said, then took a step back. “I didn't really believe Calderon when he said you were coming. Come on in.” He beckoned me inside, making way for me to do so. He offered a thin hand, kinda reedy. “I'm Willy Schwab, but everyone just calls me Spider.”

  “Because you eat a lot of flies?” I asked as he showed me through a shabbily-furnished house into a living room that had seen better days. Everything looked either secondhand or ancient.

  Spider laughed weakly. “Nah, it's because I was 'fly' back when that was a thing.”

  “It's a street name?” I asked. Calderon was sitting quietly in the corner, a softly steaming cup of cheap coffee in his hand. He was watching the street through the curtains, as if expecting danger to show up.

  “Yeah, I was in the life for a time,” Spider said, gesturing for me to take a seat in a plush recliner, the nicest piece of furniture in the room.

  I sat, and said, “Thanks.” It's nice to appreciate a kind gesture. “How long were you in for? And...are you out, now?”

  “Yeah, been out for a while,” Spider said. “Still talk to some of the old homies in the neighborhood, you know? Some have left the life behind, just working and living there, because Bocktown's where we grew up. Hard to remove yourself from where your friends and family are, no matter how bad things might be.” He tilted his head slightly, looking down. “And I don't know if you know this, but since you left six months ago...things have got real bad.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” I said, looking down at the carpet. “Recently heard, anyway. Not like I knew things were going to shit while I was gone.”

  “Would you have come running back if you had?” Calderon asked, lifting his simmering coffee so the steam smoked in front of his eyes, washing out the brown of his irises.

  “I might have,” I said. “And you might not have been happy I did. I was pretty messed up after Minneapolis. If I'd waded right back in I might have relapsed by now. And wouldn't it be fun to have me flying everywhere drunk and angry?”

  “As opposed to just angry?” Calderon's smile was infuriating – which I gathered was the point of his snipe.

  I counted to three without answering. “Spider, I take it there's a reason Marcus brought me to meet you. Other than the fact you're a charming host and a great example of a guy who left the 'life' behind.”

  “Spider is one of my CI's.” Calderon set the coffee down. “He hears rumors, he passes them along. Because he's outside the neighborhood, he's not as close to the fire as some of the folks right there on the street.”

  “Hey, the brothers have cars and are not afraid to take a twenty-minute trip to the burbs,” Spider said, a touch nervously. “I don't want none of this blowing back on me, okay? I don't need the trouble. I'm just trying to make things a little better for my friends back there.” He looked right at me. “You know what life is like in the 'hood?”

  “Depends on the 'hood,” I said. “My friends Augustus and Jamal are from the Bluff, down in Atlanta. You know the Bluff?”

  “Only by reputation,” Spider said. “Tough place. But Bocktown ain't that great, either.” He didn't have a coffee, which made me feel better about not having one, either, because it made me think Calderon had leaned on him to make one. That dick. “You cleaned things up when you came here before. Gangs couldn't get roots down because you'd rip 'em up as soon as they'd start planting. I appreciated that. So did a lot of folks, because you didn't just run down the white criminals in the city and leave us to rot with those shitheads. You applied the hammer equally.” He looked sideways – and a touch spitefully – at Calderon. “Not all do.”

  “Ho ho,” Calderon laughed without mirth. “Do I detect a hint of accusation?”

  “Naw,” Spider said, looking away quickly. “You been fair. It's why I talk to you.” He looked back up now, and there was a challenge there. “But you know damned well how it runs there. Detectives don't want cases from Bocktown. Gang-related slayings, rapes, robberies, murders – as long as it's happening in the bounds, they just let it run, don't kick the hornet's nest. You get an ambitious one every now and again, like Calderon here,” and he pointed, “and they take the idea of equal justice serious. They work to track down the murderers, to solve the crimes. There are good cops...and there are a few bad ones, too. But the worst? It's the indifferent ones.”

  I blinked at that. “I would think the bad cops would be worse than the indifferent ones.”

  Spider shook his head slowly. “No. Because the bad cops get by on the sufferance of the indifferent ones. The indifferent ones – some people think it's a color thing. Nah. I got my ass kicked hard by black cops more than white cops.” He chuckled. “White cops are scared shitless they're going to be accused of racism, so they mostly take it easier. Black cop'll beat the hell out of you with the camera running on him while he does it. Some people call that 'systemic racism.'” He laughed. “I know what it really is, though.”

  I waited for him to offer the answer, but he didn't, so I bit. “What is it, then?”

  “It's an 'us' versus 'them' mentality,” Spider said. “Same thing you get from the gangsters. 'Them cops is all bad, they want to beat our asses and shoot us down in the streets.'” He shook his head. “They've all known a good cop – but what they haven't known is life out here, on the other side, right?” He extended a hand, as if to encompass all the suburbs. “You don't see the folks in my neighborhood – white, black, Hispanic, or Asian – feudin' over a block and shooting each other over it. They got explanations for that, but they don't see the truth, because they don't read history like I do. What you see in the hood is some old-fashioned Kentucky backwoods feudin' shit. Old cracker culture from the old South. Insults. Honor. Duels to the death. You still see it some, in poor folks of all colors.”

  “I don't see how this fits with good cops, though,” I said, looking sidelong at Calderon. He'd given up on the diatribe and was looking out the window again. Maybe he'd heard it before.

  “Because in a civilized society you don't settle your disputes with fifteen paces and a gunshot anymore,” Spider said. “You move from a culture of honor to a culture of dignity, where someone can say terrible shit about you to your face and you can laugh right back in theirs, because who gives a damn? They can't take your dignity unless you let 'em.”

  “Those community college classes are really paying off, Spider,” Calderon said with a measure of seriousness.

  “I'm thinking about becoming a professor,” Spider said.

  “You'd be good at it,” I said. “You have that...professorial manner.”

  He inclined his head at me. “Good cops understand something beyond that 'I shoot him, his brother shoots me' cycle of vengeance that runs through the hood like brushfire through dry grass. They understand justice has to be delivered impartially by a disinterested intermediary – the state – or else you get these forever feuds. A good cop in a bad neighborhood has to work five times as hard to extend the state's justice to folks, especially in the gangs, who'd rather just deal with it themselves.” He paused. “It's a lot of work to do community policing, to get to know a rough neighborhood. And it's pretty thankless, especially when it doesn't go well. Easier to just go to one of the boys on the corner you know and ask for them to make it right with whoever done you wrong. Killed your family member. Did whatever.”

  “Tell her what you told me, Spider,” Calderon said, dragging his eyes away from the window. He looked tired; he'd been up all night, just like I had.

  “You had two gangs in on that Cool Springs Galleria mixup,” Spider said. All the enthusiasm had bled out of him. “Bocktown Bloods and Rollin' 80's. True rivals. They met there, they – well, you know. And shit went down.”

  “I figured that part out,” I said. “But I need some names. Some people I can tie to it, arrest–”

  “Make an example of?” Spider asked with a faint smile.

  “I suppose,” I said. “Isn't that what justice is about, too? Not just punishing the wrongdoer, but deterring future wrongs?”

  “Yeah,” Spider said tiredly. “That's what justice is about – if it's applied equally. When only the black gang villains get it, though, and white-collar white criminals get off scot free–”

  “That's not how I do things,” I said. “But I do prioritize actual violence over theft or embezzlement or whatever.”

  Spider stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Because you don't think that's worth pursuing?”

  “It's tougher to pursue,” I said. “I'm not bright enough or at least not skilled enough to do forensic accounting. And as much as I despise a thief, people who are doing physical harm to others will always be my priority. Because I can stop them so much easier.”

  “You make the hurtin' stop,” Spider said, as if weighing my words. “Triage.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Triage.”

  “Well, Bocktown could use some triage,” Spider said. “Here's a name for you – Andre Schuler. He was a Rollin' 80's triggerman, and was right there in your mall. One of the key figures in starting that shit, in fact. Heard it just after it happened.” Spider settled in his chair.

  “And the other name?” Calderon prodded.

  “Purcell Lewis,” Spider said. “Skinny little pain in the ass. Heard he got some meta powers that lets him shoot green lasers. That he helped bring down that roof on them folks out there. He's with the Bocktown Bloods.”

  “Thank you, Spider,” Calderon said, gathering his hat. He picked up his cup and offered it to his host. “Your coffee is shit, but your information is probably better. It's been real.” And without another word, he went for the door.

  “He's not real mannerly, is he?” Spider asked once Calderon was out the door.

  “I think he's just in a bad mood,” I said. “Maybe it's what's been going on tonight.”

  “I think it's that pretty, high-maintenance wife of his,” Spider said. “He gave up his cushy job in Atlanta to come here with her, you know? Because this is her hometown.”

  “I did not know that,” I said, feeling somehow more uncomfortable with this information than I did with all the other info he'd just laid on me.

  “Oh, yeah,” Spider said, walking me to the door. “You know, you don't seem to walk on eggshells the way a lot of white ladies do when I start to talk about race and policing.”

  “Probably because I literally could not give less of a damn about the race of people I deal with,” I said. “I heard Sean Ono one time call it 'the least interesting, interesting thing' about a person, and that really stuck with me.”

  “You might have to break that one down for me in more manageable pieces,” Spider said, narrowing his eyes. “Because where I come from – race is just about everything to some folks.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Most people all want generally the same things. Some prosperity. Some peace and quiet. A good life. Not to get shot at in the course of our daily life.”

  “Right.”

  “But I've been shot at a lot in my daily life,” I said. “By black people and white people, Hispanics, Asians – the entire fucking rainbow has tried to kill me at various points in my life. The people I can count on when whoever comes to kill me – are the people I can count on. Their melanin count does not factor into it. Loyalty, decency – those are the things I use to determine who my friends are. I cannot imagine a more useless guideline than your skin tone.” I shook my head. “More black people are currently poor than white people. Seems to me that has a real impact on culture, which influences everything else. But I've known rich white people who were great and poor black people who were great – and vice versa. But there's also this rich white guy out there right now I'd like to skin with my bare hands–”

  “It's Wil Waters, isn't it?” Spider asked with a knowing smile.

  “Mmhmm,” I said, “with my bare hands, I tell you. And I've met rich black dudes that were raised in luxury and given advantages 99% of people never had that wanted to put a bullet in me. So yeah – I guess I just don't buy into the current race equals privilege argument. Because I was raised shitty, and I know other white people who were raised poor enough they had to kill squirrels as a pre-teen to feed their family. So race to me – it's a category error, batching people that way. I have to take people as individuals – are they loyal? Are they brave? Are they going to be there for me when it hits the fan?”

  “Are they true?” Spider asked with a mocking smile. “I like Mulan, too – the original, not that crap remake. I take your point, Sienna Nealon. You might see it differently if you were different, though. If race was more of a factor in your life.”

  I couldn't really argue with that, so I thanked Spider and walked out the door, following Calderon to the car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Hop in,” Calderon said as I stepped out of Spider's cute suburban house into the already sweltering warmth of the morning. It was going to be a warm one, and it was barely nine in the morning. Calderon was waiting next to an older-model SUV, standing on the running board.

  “I can just fly and meet you there,” I said, squinting against the bright sunlight. And the vampiric tiredness seeping through me after getting all of an hour or two of sleep last night.

  “Nah,” Calderon said. “We ought to get a couple things straight. Come on.” And he got in. Expectantly.

  I sighed, kept from rolling my eyes, and got in his SUV. It smelled sweetly of some kind of cigarillo, mild enough that it – shockingly – didn't bother me. I couldn't stand smokers unless I was indulging, and I'd kicked that habit shortly after I'd started recovery. No need to be an even worse example to all those kids out there who still thought I was a hero.

  Calderon kept quiet as he started the car and took us out of Spider's development. He hit Interstate 40 west and merged into morning traffic, cars glinting in the sunlight. He didn't say anything until we had about reached the Percy Priest Dam, then finally, “You heard those names Spider dropped?”

  “Purcell Lewis,” I said. “And Andre Schuler.” I turned my head to watch his reaction. “Wasn't Schuler the guy with a big burn through the middle of his face that you and I were chatting over last night?”

  “And Purcell Lewis is the one we're heading to see right now,” Calderon said, eyes on the road. “Similar wound, though it went through his open mouth. Gave him a grisly, blowtorch version of a Glasgow smile. Never seen anything like it.” He started to chuckle. “Looks like he died giving a hummer to one of those fire metas.”

  “Gah.” I cringed away as Calderon cackled at making me grimace. When we both recovered our composure, I added, “You think it was another lightsaber, then?”

  “If that's what you call what you showed me at Schuler's. That burning blade thing that comes right out of your hand.”

  “So if Spider's a source to be believed,” I said, “two guys who were involved in the destruction of the mall last night died in the last few hours.”

  “You're wise not to take the word of a snitch, no matter how well meaning, at face value,” Calderon said.

  “It's almost like I've worked with criminals before.”

  “But in this case...I do think Spider's right.” He gave me a sidelong look.

  “Schuler and Lewis were in different gangs,” I said. “Bitter rivals. So...who would whack both of them?”

  “Someone who's mad about what they did,” Calderon said dryly, his eyes on me.

  I groaned. “Are you back on this again? I have an alibi, okay?”

  “So did Al Capone, every time something bad happened. Funny how that works, huh?”

  “You want to accuse me of this?” I asked, and put a hard glare on him. I wanted to see just how far he wanted to push this.

  Not far, I guess, because after a minute he said, “Nah. I like your motive for it, Miss Suburban Avenger, but it's a little too on-the-nose even for you.” He shook his head. “Lacks subtlety.”

  “I'm not known for my subtlety,” I said.

  “You're not known for your stupidity, either.”

  “Well, in my dating life there's some evidence I'm an idiot,” I said, prompting him to chuckle – a little.

  “Speaking of idiots,” Calderon said, “did Spider feed you his whole line about poor, persecuted black men, suffering daily at the hands of the cops?”

  “I don't necessarily think it's a line,” I said.

  Calderon scoffed, laughing loudly – and totes fake. “Please tell me you do not subscribe to this idea that all cops are racists and that we're just out to make black boys and men suffer and die because they exist and we're cruel bastards, akin to the slave catchers of old.”

  “Not what I'm saying,” I said. “I've heard those arguments, both sides of them – that policing is a racist institution and thus should be destroyed, and from the other direction that there's no criticism to be countenanced of law enforcement.” I looked at him sideways. “You and I both know there's plenty of room for legit criticism of cops, especially ones who get out of line and do something terrible.”

  “You including yourself in there?” Calderon asked. “I am a black man, okay? I grew up black, obviously, this is not a late in life change, Rachel Dolezal style.” He gripped the wheel tight. “I know what it entails.”

 

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