Neely Tucker - The Ways of the Dead

Sly Hastings materialized from the darkness. He was wearing a white pullover, black basketball shorts, white socks with black flip-flops, and small, wire-framed glasses.

“Donnell, hush up,” he said to the dog. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I hope you know more than what’s on TV, brother, ’cause they don’t know shit.”

The steel door leading to the basement was open and Sully turned right, took a step down to the landing, and then went down the steps. The house, a ramshackle shell above, turned into a well-appointed apartment below, one of the bases of Sly’s growing business enterprise.

Downstairs, the overhead lighting was muted, and a large television was against a wall. The kitchen was at the far side. Sully went to the refrigerator, pulled out a Miller, and returned to the couch. He held the cold can against his right temple.

“Damn,” he said. It felt that good.

Sly returned to his seat on a bar stool at the counter, where a newspaper was folded into a quarter panel. He picked up a pen and looked down at the paper. The television was turned to a twenty-four-hour news channel broadcasting from the crime scene but the sound was off. The dog flopped down on the kitchen floor. Sully closed his eyes and let himself sink back into the comforts of the couch. Sly was, in the context of his life, in the context of working in Bosnia and Rwanda and Liberia and Lebanon and the taxi wars of South Africa, a warlord, and sort of a minor one at that. He would kill you graveyard dead-sure, they’d all do that-but most warlords, the ones who would tolerate your presence at all, would not fuck with you if you did not fuck with them. If you had the nerve to walk past the guns and the machetes to get to their front door, and did not jump the first time a flunky put a gun in your face and told you they were going to blow your fucking brains across the street, then they’d talk to you, give you their misshapen view of the world. Sly, operating in the United States, who didn’t even have a machete, was not, actually, one of the most frightening people he’d ever met, and probably was not in the top ten. He was deadly, yeah, and he killed people, but the United States had such a limited understanding of the uses of homicidal violence, and really none at all since the Deep South terrorism of the early 1960s… After a minute, Sully looked up. Sly was peering at the paper, writing on it occasionally, barely looking up at the television. Sully said, “I thought you’d be more bothered.”

“By?”

Sully nodded toward the screen. “The recent unpleasantness.”

Sly did not look up. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“You don’t appear concerned.”

“I don’t appear to be a lot of things.”

Sully said, raising his chin, gesturing at the paper, “You been working that all day? It’s damn near eleven.”

“It’s the Friday,” Sly said, still looking down. “You can’t fucking do the Wednesday.”

Sully popped the beer tab, slurped, looked at the television. “They catch the bad guys yet?”

Sly looked up. The news channel had cut to a stand-up shot on Georgia Avenue, the dance studio in the background. Klieg lights blasted the scene, the shadows deep off to the side. The police chief and a cadre of others were standing at a bank of microphones. Sly pointed a remote at the television, bringing up the audio.

“The search in this case is intensely focused in this neighborhood,” the chief was saying, “but it is national in scope. This is not a D.C. homicide investigation. This is a national security issue. The task force we are putting together, that is already acting, reflects that. There are federal agents from more than half a dozen agencies already at work on this, and they will continue to be until it is resolved.”

Shouted questions, brief mayhem.

“There are three men in the store we want to talk to, yes. Suspects, I don’t know about that, but they are persons we are interested in talking to, obviously.”

Sly snorted. “Them three.” The hand came up again with the remote, and the volume retreated to zero.

Sully looked at the scene unfolding a few blocks away. The chief was still talking, taking questions.

“Them three?” he said.

“Hell yeah, them three. In the store.”

“Who are they?”

Sly did not take his eyes off the television, but his tone was amiable. “You don’t need to know everything.”

“But you know.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And they won’t be turning themselves in?”

Sly looked over his glasses at him.

“Do they need to?” Sully asked.

“Carter. Nobody in this neighborhood is stupid enough to kill the first white girl to come through here since God was a baby.”

“So it’s outsiders after the Honorable Judge Reese?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“This wasn’t a Sly Hastings operation?”

“You really don’t want to come in somebody’s house and talk that kind of shit.”

“So who should local law enforcement be looking for?”

Sly looked at the television, then down at the crossword puzzle in front of him. He sipped his coffee. “I been thinking on that. I don’t know.”

“That’s remarkable, Sly,” he said, slurping the beer. “I thought it was your job to know.”

Sly tapped the pen on the paper. He did not look up. “I said I did not know. I did not say I will not know.”

“Bets?”

“The habit of fools and drunks. The wise man follows the evidence at hand.”

Sully kicked off his shoes. “Police get to have evidence , Sly. I’m a step back, if not two. They’re going to be all over shit until they lock somebody up and, you know, they’re gonna come looking for you and an alibi.”

“It had never dawned on me, helpful white man.”

“I’m saying this is one of those incidents where you and I can work together. Mutual benefit and all.”

“Maybe.”

“So where might I find them three for a dramatic interview?”

“Nowhere. It ain’t time yet. Me and Lionel, we only started looking into this. Them three need to stay incognito. I got investments tying me up just now.”

“The apartments? I thought your sis was running them for you.”

“Nikki is my half sis and she can’t do every goddamn thing. She been distracted, got the day job at D.C. Housing. We’re up to three buildings now, twenty-eight units, I tell you that? But that ain’t on my mind right now. What’s on my mind right now, you were supposed to have dinner with my girlfriend tonight. What’s she saying?”

“About what?”

“Me.”

“About what I told you she would. That you’re an asshole who needs to be locked up, a menace, blah blah. Also, they took that Chucky thing personal.”

“Chucky? Fucking Chucky ? That’s where they’re at?” He paused a minute, looking at the television, and then laughed. “Good. I like that. That’s good.”

“I got the idea he was a cooperating witness.”

“He was.”

“They know you’re in Park View but they don’t really know what you’re into.”

“She didn’t sniff you out?”

“I said I’m looking at writing about a motherfucker who’s got juice. She brought you up.”

Sly dropped his pen on the newspaper, folding his arms and swiveling in his chair. “Well. That’s almost a compliment. That’s good. Who else did she mention, power-broker-wise?”

“We were interrupted by the passing of Miss Reese. But I didn’t sense she had anybody else in mind. Well. Rayful Edmond. She gave me Rayful as a history case. She was trying to sell me on a story about you. I guess to see if maybe it’d make you jump.”

“If that’s what they down to.”