First asshole was hiding under a dumpster behind the Family Suprette. Patrol walked by five times and might never have gotten him if not for his big white shoes, which caught a beam off a roller’s flash. The motor cop bent with his lamp—and if dude’s untied sneaks were bright, his eyeballs were halogen.
Like GPS, them brand new Jordans, said Herc’s partner Alice as they looked at the first dude in back of a black-and-white. Kid was twenty maybe, Mexican illegal, skinny as shit. Herc was glad they were Spanish speakers so he could work with Alice on this and didn’t catch some humourless buff like the Lieu.
Second asshole was strolling the neighbourhood four blocks away, wearing a quart of the vic’s O-pos when patrol put a car light on him. Dude just flopped down to the street, bloody hands behind his back like he done it all his life.
That ought to be admissible as a confession, Alice said, bending down to eyeball Perp Two in the back of a patrol car. Fat Cabo-looking kid, sixteen at most.
Guys made a good catch, Herc told the patrolman.
It was true. Ten minutes after initial and patrol picks two on a gunny? Sure-for-shit that’s a good average on a thing like this. That meant only the third got away, if there was a third, which the detectives put at unlikely at this point. Normally Herc might’ve just left it to graveyard to look for the gun and knock doors, Herc and Alice taking the two back to the shop to sit on. But they couldn’t call it yet, for four very good reasons:
1) There was a wit on this, someone actually willing to testify—as unlikely an occurrence in this nobody-saw-nothin’ neighborhood as a Rhodes Scholar,
2) and this wit insisted there were three guys walked up to the black kid, not two, and that guy three was the shooter—one to the chest, blowback hitting Asshole Two, then a closing tap to the vic’s temple. And here was the interesting part—the wit made Bachelor Number Three as a tall white male, which was significant because
3) one of dos hombres muttered to the arresting officers something about blanco grande, Big White, which was the name of the phantom everyone was talking about. Course, some big white kingpin actually being in this was as unlikely as that same Rhodes Scholar organising a local cricket team, but if the witness was right, the third dude—assuming he existed—could be
4) John Dough. Big White. Blanco Grande.
Bullshit, said Alice. Dough’s a myth.
Can’t hurt to go talk to this old lady.
She knows anything I’ll eat my own ass.
You never know. Maybe—
Maybe ass. Maybe balls. Maybe my cock tastes like butterscotch.
Just one second pretend he exists, Alice. Then what do we got?
We got a big white cowboy crime boss controls all the powder cocaine in the state only no one knows his real name or where he lives and has ever seen him and he shows up in Spokane with two asses-for-rent Mex-mules to hit a random corner dime-slinger over forty bucks. That it, Herc? That your final answer?
Crazier things happen.
Nope. That’s the craziest thing ever happened in the crazy history of crazy town. John Dough my ass.
It was the joint drug and gang task force came up with the name for the phantom, giving Dough credit for single-handedly bringing coke back to the state, and not the dirty-ass rocks of the 80s and 90s but the club shit, only cheaper and better. According to the task force, Dough bought direct from Peru, used illegals to mule it—like these dos hombres, grabbing them off apple orchards in the centre of the state. Guy had the best coke, hired the best muscle, always through intermediaries, and if anyone so much as breathed John Dough, they disappeared. And so, in eighteen months of Blanco Grande popping up on wiretaps and in interviews, still not a single lead on the man.
Alice said John Dough was just a story the slingers cooked to make the coke seem better. Then, every time someone got plugged, like this street vendor, they could blame it on the big white ghost and keep driving up price.
This is all about branding, my stupid Caucasian friend. Dude’s the Ronald McDonald of blow.
I don’t know.
Alice stuck his head in patrol car two.
Amigo, que es Blanco Grande?
The second loser shook his head no.
Tres hombres, si?
No. Dos.
Alice turned. Shrugged, as if: …See.
But Herc just kept staring at the mule’s face. Dude looked terrified.
Would you gentlemen like herbal or Earl Grey?
Nothing for me, ma’am.
I’m good, too.
I didn’t catch your names.
Like I said, this is Detective Aguilar and I’m—
Oh, first names, please.
Alesandro Aguilar.
Randy Stallworth.
Didn’t he just call you something else?
Yeah. Herc. It’s kind of a nickname. Like Hercules. You know, because I’m so skinny. Lot of the other guys all work out… it’s ironic.
Would you gentlemen like herbal or Earl Grey?
We’re really fine, ma’am. You were saying how old you are.
I most certainly was not.
Uh… okay. Can you tell me how long you’ve lived here?
My late husband Ed and I moved here in 1948. So that’s what, thirty-six years?
Sixty, but you know… who’s counting.
Can I offer you a cup of herbal tea, or Earl Grey?
We’re really fine.
I didn’t get your names.
Uh. Alesandro Aguilar.
Randy Stallworth.
Are you married, Mr. Stallworth? You’re very attractive.
If we could get back to what you saw tonight. You say four men on the corner there?
I did not say four men. There were four men. First was that young coloured who stands on the corner all the time, but never gets on the bus. I used to think he couldn’t afford the bus, but my grandson said he was probably a drug dealer—
Did your grandson see the kid, Mrs. Kramer?
Oh, no. He lives in Los Angeles. He’s a lawyer there. He never visits, except at Christmas.
Okay. So the young African American was standing on the corner. Then what?
The two Mexican men walked up and began talking to the boy who never gets on the bus. Then the other man appeared. The third culprit.
The third culprit.
Yes. The third culprit. I would have to say he was the mastermind.
The mastermind.
He shot the coloured boy.
And did he say anything before he shot him.
Oh, yes.
Can you tell me exactly what he said?
I wouldn’t use that language with my worst enemy.
Maybe tell me without the bad words?
They were all bad words.
Uh huh. And can you describe this man?
The third culprit?
Yes. The third… yes.
White. Forty-one years old. Six feet two inches, two hundred and ten pounds. Blondish brown hair, a little thin on top. His face is oval and he has thick lips and a slightly upturned nose. He smirks.
Smirks.
Like this.
That’s… quite a description. How about his clothes?
The third culprit?
Yes.
Black suit and a white shirt with vertical black stripes and a black tie. Where are my manners? Would either of you like a cup of herbal tea? I also have Earl Grey.
Maybe later. Could we go back to what you saw tonight?
Not until you’ve at least told me your names.
Uh, can I use your bathroom, Mrs. Kramer?
Of course, young man. And would you like some tea, Mr.—?
Fine. I’ll have some tea.
Herbal or Earl Grey?
Herbal please. I’ll be right back.
Christ, Herc. Woman’s bathroom is full of dementia meds. My uncle had this. We had to put up signs everywhere: toaster, closet, shitter. Let’s get out of here.
So she’s crazy. She saw something tonight.
Third culprit? What is that? Look at that bookcase. Full of bullshit mysteries and videotapes of old Perry Masons and Murder She Wrotes.
But her description—
Dude in a black and white suit? I’m telling you, she’s giving us an old Perry Mason. Let’s get out of here.
Here you are. One cup of Earl Grey. Oh, I don’t believe I’ve met your friend.
Jack. Jack McCock.
I’m afraid I only brought one cup of tea, Mr. McCock. I didn’t realise there were two of you. Would you like some tea? I have herbal or—
No, I’m good.
Uh, Mrs. Kramer. Could you finish telling us what you saw tonight?
Ah yes. The crime. Very unnerving. I don’t understand violence. But could you introduce yourselves first? It’s terribly unsettling, having strangers in the house.
Randy Stallworth and Alesandro Aguilar.
And are you married, Mr. Stallworth?
Mrs. Kramer, do you have anyone helping you around here—
You’re very attractive.
Excuse me. Who is that? On the mantle?
Oh, that’s a picture of my grandson, David. Isn’t he handsome?
Yeah. I especially like his black suit. And black tie.
I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.
Alesandro.
Well, Alesandro, David is an attorney in Los Angeles. I’m so proud of him. He only visits at Christmas, though.
How tall would you say your nephew is?
He’s six feet, two inches.
What’s he go, about two-ten?
Yes, he weighs two hundred ten pounds. Do you know him?
Looks about forty.
Forty-one.
Oh yeah? Blondish hair, thin on top, oval face. Little smirk.
Do you know David?
No.
David lives in Los Angeles. He’s an attorney. I’m so proud of him. He never visits, except at Christmas. No one visits except at Christmas. Do you know David? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten—
Alice. My name is Alice.
Where are my manners? Would you like some tea, Alice?
You know what? I’d love some tea, Mrs. Kramer.
Herbal or—
Surprise me.
Mrs. Kramer closed the door behind the two men. They seemed nice. She wondered why they hadn’t come inside. Where were her manners? She should’ve offered them tea. She wished she’d gotten their names. Especially the skinny one. So rude not to give your name. The skinny one was handsome. Maybe she would look at the TV. She watched the two men walk away. She wondered if she should tell the police about what she saw earlier. She looked out the window. Two strange men were walking away on her sidewalk. Goodness. She reached up and locked the door. The second man was handsome. Tea sounded good!
There were footsteps from the basement stairs and a shadow appeared behind her.
Oh, David, you frightened me.
Sorry, Grandma. Are your friends gone?
Who?
The police.
Oh my. Were the police here?
No, they weren’t.
Oh, good.
David picked up the photo off the mantle. At least the shirt was different. Still, he felt stupid. You think you know yourself but there are always blind spots. You finally get some money, enough to buy a decent goddamn suit and you get a more expensive version of the same thing.
What are you doing here, David? Is it Christmas?
I was downstairs, Grandma, remember?
Is it Christmas?
No, Grandma.
Would you like some tea? But, wait… why are you here, David? Is it Christmas?
No, remember, Grandma. I came to talk to the kid in front of your house. The drug dealer? I told him to go to another corner.
You did?
Yep. I gave him bus fare and sent him away. Come on. Sit down.
He eased her into her chair. Put on a Murder She Wrote.
Ooh, I like her. Jessica.
I know you do. Be right back, Grandma.
David went down to the basement. He pulled the filter and felt around. Gun had slid all the way down the face. Good. He double-checked the laundry sink. Splashed it once more with bleach. Almost blew the whole thing over some rat-shit kid wouldn’t stay off Grandma’s corner. Not even one of his. He’d planned to just send the mules, but the kid wouldn’t budge and then his stupid temper. David took out the panel and felt around the floor joists, pulled out a stack of hundreds from the thick bundle.
Back upstairs she was standing at the window, looking worried.
Grandma, why aren’t you watching Jessica?
Did you do something to that boy tonight?
No, Grandma. I just talked to him.
But I remember a gun and bad words. David, did you use that awful language?
That’s crazy, Grandma.
She watched him warily.
Merry Christmas?
Sometimes a thing just stuck with her. But never what David would want. She never remembered their walks, their trips to the park, even though he came once a month on his rounds. But this she remembers. He was going to have to get her into that assisted living place soon. And then he’d need a new stash. Great. John Dough pulled his golf bag from the hall closet and stuffed some of the money.
Grandma, there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re thinking of a TV show.
I am?
Yeah. I watched it with you. Dragnet.
Oh, I love Dragnet.
I know you do, Grandma. It was a good one, too. Joe Friday was trying to catch this mastermind. He and his partner questioned a witness. It was great.
Oh, it sounds wonderful. Can we watch it again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.
Of course we can.
Would you like some tea, David?
I’d love some tea. I don’t suppose you have herbal?
How did it end?
The show? You know. The way they always end. Happy.