X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

When I turned back to the door, Denby Baker was standing there.

“Hey, bo.” His voice was raspy, as if it’d been rubbed raw with a Brillo Pad. It matched the beard on his face and the Newport hanging from his bottom lip. He readjusted his Yankees cap, adorned with the brothers’ trademark golden fish hook on the bill, and showed a perfect row of teeth while he held the door open for me to come through.

“Hey, Derb,” I said, and passed him on the way to the kitchen. I leaned against the counter in the middle of the room next to an empty sink and a large microwave. The only thing on top of the counter was a set of jade dice. “Thought you were done with her.”

“I am. That’s why she was all in a huff. I can’t even stand to listen to her talk. The accent lost its charm probably around the third time she scammed me. Ain’t no way I’ma hook her up with nothing. Told her to beat it. It’s nothing. Hey, how’s life on the crutch though, Levy?”

“Hell on the armpits. But at least now I can grow out my beard like you two bozos seeing as how I can’t work. I try to be a glass-half-full kinda guy.”

“Speaking of glasses half full, how about a beverage?”

“Night’s getting better already.”

He stepped past me and opened the fridge. All that was inside of it was a twelve-pack of Milwaukee’s Best, a jar of mayo, a loaf of bread, and a very large plastic bag full of marijuana. He grabbed two cans of beer, opened one, and handed it to me.

I took a healthy sip out of the can and said, “Your neighbors aren’t creepy at all, by the way.”

“Yeah. They’re backwards as hell. But they’re all right. Just sit on the porch and drink. See some dogs in the backyard here and there. Big boys.” He took down practically half of his beer in one extended gulp. “Crazy thing is though,” he continued, “me and Regg see girls come over there every now and again. Half decent too — I mean, no peg leg or hook at the wrist. It’s suspect, real suspect.”

“Kiddin’ me?”

“Nope. Ain’t no gun to their heads neither.”

I gave him an unconvinced, “Huh.”

Reggie came running down the stairs. He looked almost identical to his brother except his hair came down to his shoulders, he was taller, and he was lighter in the paunch. He entered the living room wearing a ridiculous outdoorsman vest and no shirt underneath, long jean shorts, and sneakers with socks pulled up right under his knees. In his hand he had a plastic container with what looked like dirt in it.

“Let’s go fishin’, boys!”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Docks on the James.”

“I’m with it,” I shrugged and looked at Denby.

“Lemme grab the kush.” He took a small plastic bag out of a drawer and went to the fridge, filling it with marijuana from the larger bag. He stuffed that in his pocket, grabbed his beer, and we were out the door. The neighbors were no longer on the porch smoking.

We took their car. I kept my beer can low in my seat as we made a left onto Belvidere. In five blocks only six police cars passed us. We made a right onto Cary and slid down hills that brought us downtown. The streets and buildings looked like a world inside a lightbulb, all yellow and empty. Further down, past all the buildings occupied by suits in the daytime, the road became cobblestone.

Hotels and restaurants provided a different kind of light in Shockoe Slip. A group of brightly dressed young people stood outside of Tobacco Company contemplating where to get their next cocktail.

We made a left onto 14th and then a right on Main. The train tracks were raised into the sky above us, along with I-95. They created a dark ceiling, illuminated dimly by streetlights to give everything the grainy look that always made people from the West End reluctant to visit. When they did, they had to get drunk, and fast. The droves weren’t parading the streets this night, however. It wasn’t yet the weekend. But the traffic was still heavy.

We went past downtown, riding east on Main Street, past Church Hill, away from the city. Everything became very dark and the night lost the sounds that people made. There were more train tracks down this way and the James River became visible as we passed through or under a large building that must have served as a kind of gateway at some point in history. Now, it was only a shell. Richmond had a lot of that kind of history.

A large white yacht was harbored on the docks. During the week it gave tours. Tables with white cloth draped over them could be seen inside the yacht through the windows. We parked the car a little ways down from where the boat was docked and unpacked the fishing rods, tackle box, bait, and booze. In the daytime it was fine to fish next to the yacht. People from all walks of life came out, set up chairs, and spent long hours fishing amiably. We wouldn’t fish there though. Several lights set next to the boat and in the parking lot made the whole area very bright. There weren’t any other cars out there, which wasn’t any surprise, considering the hour. Still, it was too out in the open for what we had in mind.

Reggie took us away from the yacht toward where the trees came in and the river narrowed. We could hear the current rushing past in the dark. There was just enough light from the moon to make out a path. It wasn’t a long walk before we got through the trees and had to work down a thin path that took me awhile to navigate on crutches. The path led to a smaller dock with no one else in sight.

We set everything down on the dock and I started on a new beer. The brothers began to rig the rods. They used a Carolina rig, which had a weight on the line that would sink to the bottom of the river. There would be enough line after the weight that the bait we put on the hook would float up several inches. The moon was bright over the moving river, causing the rocks that protruded from it to glow. It seemed like the arrangement of the rocks changed every summer

We could see to the other side of the riverbank almost clearly, but where we were, with the trees hanging over us, shielding us from the moonlight, we were practically invisible. I guessed I could hurl a potato across the river and reach the other side. Maybe.

Reggie pulled out the plastic container of dirt and began to pick through it. When his hand came out he had a squirming night crawler.

“I got a feeling about it tonight, bo,” Reggie said to me.

“Yeah. A big catfish maybe?” I said between sips, watching Denby pack a bowl with what I could already smell was strong weed.

“That’d be great. Reel one of those big boys in. Yep.” Reggie stood up, his rod set and the worm dangling from the hook. He swung back gently, one finger holding the line, and then cast. It went out very far and made a good-sounding splash. Denby and I both commented that it was a nice cast.

“So what happened with your foot, Lev? Derb told me you jumped off a balcony or something?” Reggie asked, looking over his shoulder in my direction.

“Derb, damn, man. No. I didn’t jump off any balcony.”

He grinned, though I couldn’t see it. I could just tell by how the words came out of his mouth. “Who were you running from?”

“I didn’t jump off any damn balcony!”

“Whoa! Easy there, buddy. Just inquiring, just inquiring. What is it, Sensitive Tuesday?”

“It’s Wednesday, you idiot,” Denby said.

“What is it, Sensitive Wednesday?”

We laughed and the freshly packed bowl began to circulate. After I’d taken my first turn, each proceeding cast I made into the river became worse. I didn’t care very much. We were laughing and I forgot about my foot and the other things that troubled me and became comfortable on the dock in the dark. Several times I lost my bait, either in a terrible cast or getting snagged by the brush on the bottom of the riverbed. I slowly became more concerned with drinking, if only to balance myself out. I felt the rig finally pull loose from a failed cast and was reeling it in when we heard a single scream. It came from the other side of the river. It came from a girl.