Suitcase City. Sterling Watson

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       FIVE

      While the boy applied ice to his cheek and the bartender finished his phone report to Malone, the black cop, Aimes, took Teach to a table near the front door. As he told the story and Aimes listened, Teach tried to read the man. All he got was an even temper, a solid self-confidence, and a concern for accuracy. Sometimes the cop challenged Teach. “The boy said, Give up your wallets? You sure that’s what he said?”

      Teach said, “I think so. Maybe he just said, Give it up, but we know what that means, don’t we?”

      The policeman didn’t nod or write it down. He just looked steadily at Teach and waited for more.

      When he could, Teach glanced at McLuster who was telling his version to the thin policeman. The wad of paper towels was gone and the urine stain was fading. Teach would bet the smell was as strong as ever. The poor cop. The things these guys had to do.

      The boy, Tyrone Battles, uncuffed now, holding an iced towel to his cheek, sat watching Teach like a boxer waiting to come out of his corner. Talking to Aimes, Teach was beginning to think the boy’s intentions were the least of his problems.

      After Aimes made him tell the story a second time, Teach said, “Look, I’ve told you everything I can remember. It happened fast. I was afraid the kid was going to pull the razor. There was no way out except through him, and that’s the way I went. Frankly, I think I saved two lives in there. I don’t know why we have to keep . . .”

      The detective raised his eyebrows as Teach unreeled his good-citizen speech, his voice rising with exasperation. Teach stopped talking when he realized he had just said, “I was afraid.” Afraid was a word Teach hadn’t used much. It changed things.

      Aimes lowered his gaze, spread his big hands on the table, examined his clean, trimmed fingernails. When he looked at Teach again, his eyes were tired. “Frankly, Mr. Teach, there are two ways to look at this. One is that you just assaulted my sister’s only son who’s an honor student and the star running-back on his high school football team. Frankly, you busted open the face of a nice-looking young man who’s never been in trouble a day in his life. That’s one way.”

      Teach closed his eyes and there in the darkness the boy’s surly face leaned into his as it had in a men’s room, and he had to stop himself from shoving past Aimes and out the door. He conquered his temper and calmed his violated sense of fairness and stayed in his chair. He opened his eyes, attempted a smile, and said, “Detective, I’m trying to help you here. I’ve given you all the information I have.” He glanced at his watch and a splash of bright stage lighting burst into his mind. Jesus, the ballet recital. When? Oh Christ, soon. He had to get out of here. The cop had said there were two ways to look at this.

      Aimes said, “Mr. Teach, you said there was a razor. Where is it? The boy doesn’t have it on him.”

      Teach massaged his eyes, tried to think. “It’s still in there. In the men’s room, I mean. I heard it hit the floor when I . . .”

      Aimes looked over at the table where McLuster was unburdening himself to the white cop. “Detective Delbert,” Aimes called in that low, burring baritone, “excuse yourself for a minute there and go into the men’s room and find me the weapon Mr. Teach says he saw.”

      Teach glanced at McLuster who watched Detective Delbert walk to the men’s room. He needed McLuster to look at him, give him even the smallest reassurance, but the man only stared bleakly at the place where the trouble had started.

      The thin policeman returned from the bathroom, his face composed, something dark and gleaming in his hand. As he came on, Teach thought, He found it.

      Detective Delbert put the object on the table between Teach and Aimes, and Teach saw the cops’ eyes meet for an instant in certainty, gravity, and without surprise. And he saw that the shiny black thing on the table was a comb. Teach stared at its black plastic handle, his eyes straining to turn it into what he was sure he had seen. The cop’s low, musical voice said, “That’s not a razor, Mr. Teach. It’s what the kids call a pick.”

      Teach searched the man’s obsidian eyes, hoping to find some favor in them for the mistake he had made when he’d had only seconds to make anything at all. Aimes rose and walked across the bar to the table where McLuster and Delbert sat. When Aimes put his hand on Delbert’s shoulder, Teach thought: That hand holds the power of the state. That hand takes away a man’s belt and shoelaces, handcuffs him, and leads him out of a courtroom to a holding cell, and from there to some godforsaken, sun-hammered prison where he eats beans and collards and waits for his time on the exercise yard, and watches, if he’s lucky, television programs that appeal to morons. Teach knew where a man went when that hand touched him.

      The two cops moved to the bar and stood there talking. McLuster looked everywhere but at Teach, and Tyrone Battles held the bloody towel to his cheek.

      When Aimes and Delbert finished, the white cop went back to sit with McLuster. Aimes approached Teach. “Mr. Teach, my colleague, Detective Delbert, tells me that Mr. McLuster over there says you just lost it in that men’s room. He doesn’t know why. A big overreaction thing is what he calls it.”

      Teach blinked, could think of nothing to say. Knew what his face must look like: some comic cartoon goof staring down in disbelief as the cliff crumbles under his feet and he begins the fall, thousands of feet to the canyon bottom. He shook his head, lifted a hand to massage his forehead. The bourbon, the wonderful, convivial bourbon, had left him with a hammering headache. He heard himself saying, “Jesus, I swear to you, I . . .” And then he knew he wasn’t saying it. Was only thinking it and was glad he had kept his mouth shut.

      Aimes went over to the table where McLuster sat with Delbert. He directed them to the table where the boy sat and said, “Mr. Teach . . .” and nodded at the only vacant chair.

      Like a child summoned to the front of the classroom, Teach walked over and sat with them. The boy stared at him with the bleakest hatred Teach had ever seen.

      Aimes cleared his throat. “I don’t know what happened in there. Only you three know, and you all tell it differently. Tyrone . . .”

      Teach watched closely as the two regarded each other. Would he see the family bond in their eyes? A recognition: that was all Teach could see.

      “Tyrone,” Aimes said, “if I take your word for what happened, I can arrest Mr. Teach here for assault.”

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