Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [101]
He stuffed his arms into his fleece-lined bomber jacket, decided he’d walk the streets and see what he could get into, maybe hang in front of Smitty’s and wait for him to open, play a little pinball. He was at the door, and right before he opened it he saw the police out front. He immediately knew they were police because they were in a ’65 Impala. The detectives in Buffalo drove the same car. Plus they had that unmistakable cops’ head, more forehead than dome. Usually that type car, those shaped heads would send him into a panic, have him running through the house for a back door, or a side window that dropped into an alley, even a crawl space where he could squeeze his tall, thin frame and elude them. But he’d been on relatively good behavior here, only shoplifted twice, a silver-toned cigarette lighter and a pack of Top paper; at both stores he’d escaped notice. No, these cops weren’t here for him this time. So he didn’t have to run through the house and find an exit into the alley. He could open the front door for a change, invite them in, offer them a seat, call them sir. He was getting amused at the prospect. His boys back home would never believe that he’d played good host to the police in the middle of his aunt’s living room.
But right then he heard Mae and her all-night company coming down the stairs. They were arguing coming down the stairs, and Addison walked back to his bedroom, muttering curse words to himself; this joker was intent on ruining his day, first by being naked in his aunt’s bed, now by getting in the way of Addison having a little fun playing nice boy for the cops.
He pulled his shed door to and then cracked it a bit, just so he could peep into the living room and make sure the joker didn’t try any fast moves with his aunt, loud as he was talking. He could see the half-dressed white man standing in the living room, buttoning his shirt as he yelled at Mae, “Now, Mae, they’re limits to what I can do. I’m not even gonna begin to promise I can keep this from being part of the public record. Missing children is a serious thing, a very serious thing.”
“I thought you could do anything in this city,” Mae said, shaking her finger up to Bernie’s face. “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me, that you’re such a fucking power broker? Now when I really need you to broker some power, you tell me it’s too hard.”
Bernie threw his shoes against the floor with such force that Addison almost flung his door open to tell Bernie just to hold up, don’t be getting all carried away now. He didn’t, though. He listened instead. “Now, Mae, every time you’ve needed something done it’s the most important thing,” Bernie said, stuffing his shirt into his pants. “Every time I’ve fixed the situation when your card house gets raided, or the kids report to their social worker that you’re never here, that it’s Ramona that’s always here, or when you’re late with your paperwork, even when you’re not rightfully next in line to get more kids, I’ve always fixed it. Haven’t I, Mae? But missing children, Mae, I’m sorry, I’m just sorry.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry too, motherfucker,” Mae said, and Addison had to cover his mouth or he would have shouted, “Go ahead and tell him about himself, Aunt Mae.”
Mae wouldn’t have heard him, though. She was like a typhoon blowing and spitting.
“Dammit, now, Mae, it’s missing children. I can’t touch that—”
“Well, don’t try to touch this, you whore-making son of a bitch.”
Mae lifted her housecoat. Now Addison did turn away, out of respect. The doorbell sounded, and Addison jumped. He reminded himself again that the police weren’t here for him. He closed his door all the way shut, until just a minute later it burst open frantically,